


Like the World is Watching

by CJ_Jacobs



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2018-10-15 21:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 55,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10557950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CJ_Jacobs/pseuds/CJ_Jacobs
Summary: After a frustrating start to her music career in L.A., Beca convinces her label boss to let her produce an acapella album with her fellow former Bellas - and though nobody expects much to come of it, a surprising celebrity Twitter endorsement turns the group into overnight pop stars.  Meanwhile, roommates Chloe and Beca have begun a friends-with-benefits arrangement and are not prepared for all the ways this will change what they mean to each other, or for how much industry pressure they'll face to keep the relationship secret.  Can America’s hottest new girl group maintain friendships and cope with falling in love while navigating the chaotic world of Hollywood life?  Bechloe love story/Bellas friendship.  Canon, post-Pitch Perfect 2.





	1. Chapter 1

 

_To the person who knows who she is, thank you so much for everything - for helping me out with every last detail, and also for just generally being the most important chica in my life and the only one who keeps me from losing it entirely!  This story is dedicated to you._

_(Author's note appears as postscript below story)_

* * *

 

**Chapter 1**

At Barden University's main campus theater, a crowd is assembling in the lobby.  It's a well-dressed crowd, mostly middle aged, in their late forties and early fifties.  They're giddy and shiny-eyed with nostalgia, some maybe just a little tipsy already.  Occasional squeals arise from women spotting each other across the room and running to embrace long lost sorority sisters, and to covertly check to see who's gained the most weight.  In one corner, a group of men with thinning hair and belly paunches are attempting to reconstruct the motions of a complicated fraternity handshake that no one quite agrees on, and one of them is getting agitated at the general idiocy.  "There was never a fist bump, you assclowns!" he insists.  Above their heads, over the grand staircase, hangs a green banner proclaiming in gold glitter paint the words WELCOME CLASS OF 1987!    

Gradually some of the crowd is beginning to trickle into the auditorium, taking seats, although it's still early.  Further up in the balcony area, overlooking the stage in the makeshift commentators' booth that they've set up themselves, John and Gail, dressed to the nines in evening wear, are busting a groove to Karmin's _Acapella_ , which is apparently their new theme music.  Their moves are not impressive, but they are enthusiastic.  John's attempting what looks like a Cabbage Patch dance.  Gail's hands are in the air, raising the roof-style.

They laugh at themselves in a good-natured way, then the music fades out as John turns the volume down, declaring jovially, "Love that little rapping white girl.  Hello, folks!  You're tuned in to Let's Talk-Apella, the world's most popular and currently _only_ downloadable acapella podcast.  My name is John Smith, and with me as always is the stunning Professor Gail Abernathy-McKadden-Feinberger.   _Professor_ ," he repeats.  "My goodness, fill us in, am I reading that right?"

"That's right, John," Gail beams.  "You're looking at the newest instructor of vocal acrobatics for UCM, The University of Crimson Mound!"

"Hm."  John makes a slightly disturbed face.  "Interesting name.  Now, is that an online university?"

"It is, it is," she nods.  "And I can honestly say that the biggest perk of doing live-streaming lectures from the comfort of my own home is that I very _rarely_ feel the need to wear a bra."

"Is that right?"

"Some days, not even pants," she admits.

" _Hello_!" he laughingly exclaims.  "Where do I enroll?"

She gives him a playful swipe of her hand, continuing, "But it is of course a pleasure, as always, John, to be here with you in Atlanta tonight for a very special edition of Let's Talk-Apella."

"That's right, folks," John says, "we're here tonight to bring you a real blast from the past, the golden oldies of collegiate acapella, the 2015 world champion Barden Bellas, back for a one-night engagement here at good old Barden University's Alumni Week, where the class of 1987 is being honored with a special performance.  Now, originally, I'm told, the _current_ crop of Bellas was scheduled to perform, but it seems their entire house is quarantined with what's being described as..." he squints at a sheet of paper, "a ferociously contagious outbreak of _scabies_."

Gail's amused.  "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

He chuckles in agreement.  "Makes you wonder just what those girls have been up to, and _who_ they've been up to it with.  In any case, I’m told they will not be allowed out for another forty-eight hours, so it's the '15 team who'll be filling in."  He turns to her.  "Gail, it's been a little less than two years since this group snatched the world championship and redeemed their organization from national disgrace.  Tell us, how do you think those years have treated the Bellas?"

"Well, John, color me chartreuse with envy, because from what I could see backstage these ladies look _fantastic_ , they have not aged one bit."

He muses, "And that includes the ones who already looked unnaturally old for college students."

"Absolutely," she concurs.  

He goes on, contemplative.  "In this commentator's humble opinion, what I think our listeners will find especially moving is the nature of the Bellas' reunion here tonight.  To drop everything and fly home for a last minute performance when their dear old alma mater needs them, well, what it says loud and clear is that these young women have nothing else going on in their empty, meaningless lives."

"Not a thing," Gail agrees pleasantly, shaking her head.

* * *

 

Backstage, in the dressing room, Beca leans close to the mirror and brushes on mascara.  She's almost finished with her right eye, but then-

"Seriously?" she mutters at herself, as the wand slips just the slightest bit and leaves a black glob on the bridge of her nose.  " _Nice_."  

It's not like she hasn't done this thousands of times before.  She stares around her own reflection in the mirror to glance back at the others, checking to see if anyone has caught her screwing up one of the most basic skills in the female arsenal.  It doesn't seem so; they're all lost in their own worlds.  And it's plain to see the nerves are kicking in for everyone.  Beca can feel the jitteriness in the room like a storm front approaching.  She wants to resist it, but it's contagious.  It was always like this, but this is the first time they've ever performed with so little practice time and after such a long break, so it's even more intense than usual.

Sneaking a look around the room at everyone now, she can see that they're each doing their signature anxiety move.  Fat Amy is using a crimping iron to make grilled cheese sandwiches for everyone, which she claims contain natural soothing properties.  Stacie keeps loosening and then tightening her bra straps, trying to find the perfect tension, like a violin maestro tuning up her instrument.  Over in a corner, Lilly is meditating, or praying, or communing with her dark overlord, or whatever she does when she closes her eyes and bows her head and becomes very still.  Flo is pacing up and down the hallway outside the dressing room, alternately ranting and pleading and baby-talking into her phone in Spanish.  It's like a one-woman telenovela out there.  Jessica and Ashley are engaged in a very intense round of rock-paper-scissors, which apparently eases their nerves and is totally not weird at all, or so they insist.  And Cynthia-Rose is compulsively cracking her knuckles, something the rest of them long ago gave up asking her to stop doing.  Beca knows that when she's finished with her fingers she'll take off her shoes and do her toes, and she shudders a little and looks away before it gets to that point.   _Freaks_.  All of them.

Focusing on her own reflection again, she scrubs the mascara from her nose with a little more vehemence than required, then picks up the brush again to attempt to do her other eye.  Her hand feels even less steady than it did a minute ago, this is ridiculous.

"Here, let me."

Beca turns away from the mirror, glancing to her side at the one person in the room who _doesn't_ seem to be nervous.  Chloe's removing her earpods with one hand and holding the other one out, waiting for the mascara.

"It's cool," Beca tells her, but not with a lot of confidence.  "I got it."

Chloe just smiles and keeps her hand out, patient.  She wiggles her fingers in _a Come on, hand it over_ gesture.

Beca reconsiders, gives in, passes it to her.  She spins her chair around so that they're face to face.  She doesn't need to move in closer though, Chloe's already taking care of that.  As usual.

"Just, don't overdo it," she cautions her.

"No, of course not," Chloe says, with exaggerated innocence.  "We wouldn't want you to look like a harlot out there."  At Beca's reaction, she tells her, "Keep your face still, don't smile."  
  
"Then maybe don't say words like _harlot_ ," Beca says, but she makes an effort to compose her expression, pressing her lips together.  She gazes down awkwardly and tries not to look at anything in particular as Chloe leans in close-- _way_ too close, of course, even for this job.  She cups Beca's chin in her left hand as she applies the mascara with her right.

"You know, Beca," she tells her in a voice just above a whisper, "I have a really good feeling about tonight.  There's no reason to be stressed out."

"I'm _not_ stressed out."

Chloe ignores this obvious lie and goes on.  "And I know we haven't had much practice time, but I think we're just gonna get out there, and everything'll come together, like old times.  Once our feet hit that stage, we'll all just _mesh_."

"Mesh, huh?"

"Mm-hm.  Like we never left." She leans back, finished with the mascara.  "There."  She surveys her work.  "Not quite harlot, but maybe just a _little_ bit tramp."

Beca glances at the mirror.  "What more can a girl ask for?"  She looks back at Chloe.  "Thanks," she sighs, giving up on not appearing stressed out.  "And I hope you're right.  About the meshing."  She sounds very doubtful.

"I'm always right."  Chloe gives her an almost imperceptible wink before replacing her earpods and turning back to finish her own makeup.  "Let me know if you need help doing your mouth."

Beca gives her a faint wry smile, but doesn't otherwise reply to this.  She turns back to the mirror, trying and failing once again to ignore the others subtly freaking out behind her.

But ignoring them in the present isn't enough to get rid of them entirely.  Now her mind goes back to yesterday morning, when they'd all first been reunited.  It's been such a whirlwind two days of rehearsal that she hasn't even really had time to think about what they've all been up to in the six months since their last reunion, in the summer.  

She and Chloe had arrived together early in the morning (much too early, in Beca's opinion) to open up the rehearsal room on campus.  It was the first time they'd been in it since graduating, and to Chloe, this was apparently a Very Meaningful Moment.  Beca, still not even fully awake yet, had winced at the sound of her echoing squeal as they came through the door.  

Chloe had walked backwards and done a slow motion spin as she took in the entire room, which hadn't changed much since their days at Barden.  Then she'd drawn in a deep breath, ending with a big sigh and a look of reverent nostalgia.  "Beca.  Do you smell that?"

Beca had set her bag on top of the piano and made a face as she sniffed, gazing around the empty space, which was pierced with shafts of early morning sunlight from the high windows.  "You mean, like, that smell of old sweat and stale farts and that pink stuff the janitor uses on the floor?"

Chloe nodded with a slowly growing smile, her eyes wide for emphasis.  "That's the smell of _home_."

Glancing around once more, Beca could manage only a skeptical, " _Yeah_."  Then she leaned her elbows on the piano and rested her head in her hands, trying and failing to stifle a yawn.  "Hey, how weird would it be if I just took a really quick nap on this thing?"

Ignoring this, Chloe moved off to start prepping the room, startling her with a sharp inspirational smack on the butt as she passed behind her.  "Look alive, Bec!  We've got work to do!"

Beca pressed her fingers to her temples as if she already had a headache.  "You are so lucky you pay half the rent," she muttered.  After a few seconds she looked up, noticing Chloe's current position.  "Dude, are you _hugging_ the whiteboard?"

Then, before Beca had even had a chance to emotionally prepare herself or ingest any caffeine, the others had begun to arrive.  Fat Amy was the first to show up, with arms thrown wide and a shrill bleat of " _Becaaaaaa_!"  Then she'd picked Beca up and spun her around, hanging onto her for way longer than she was comfortable with.  

"Oh my God!" Beca laughed.  "Okay, save some for everyone else," she was finally forced to beg, extricating herself from Amy's grip.

While Chloe was busy on the phone with the alumni event coordinator, Amy had been only too happy to describe what she'd been up to since they'd last seen each other in July.  Beca already knew that she'd married Bumper in a drunk Vegas flash mob ceremony a year after graduation (and the fact that the Bellas had missed the chance to be bridesmaids and perform at her wedding was something for which Beca suspected Chloe would never _completely_ forgive Amy.)  Now, apparently, for the last few months, the honeymooners had been on something of a grand tour.  According to Amy, coming in fourteenth on The Voice meant that Bumper was in high demand as an entertainer in certain less-fashionable countries.

"Just been hauling my sexy ass around some Third World hot spots with the old ball and chain," she explained.  "Did a stint in North Korea last month."

"Really.  North Korea," Beca had repeated with a dubious smile, enjoying herself and yet clearly not believing one word of this.  "They let you in?"

" _Wellllll_ ," Amy drawled in a high-pitched tone, "Not so much _let_ us in, as, weren't able to stop us.  We crossed the border in a hot air balloon, above the line of sniper fire, Bumper's idea.  He's full of brilliant schemes, that one."

Beca's only response was a guarded, "I see."

"Soooo, you know," Amy continued, casually.  "Just spent some time hangin' out, kickin' it north of the DMZ.  Skiing's nice there, top notch, you'd like it.  Met Kim Jong-un.  And all the little Jong-uns." In a confiding tone, she told Beca, "Say what you will about his politics, but the man can breakdance."

"Hmm.  Would not have thought so," Beca had replied.

"Oh, _yeaahh_ , you'd better believe it," Amy insisted, eyes widened.  "In fact, he taught me this move, right here."  At which she'd lowered herself to the floor and proceeded to do something utterly ridiculous and labored and painful-looking, which involved a lot of wobbly turns and some very, very slow spinning on her back.  To Beca's mind it somewhat resembled what happens when a turtle gets stuck upside down in the middle of a road.

"Is that breakdancing?" Beca asked skeptically.

Amy had used Beca's hands to lever herself back to her feet with a flourish, wincing and panting with the effort.  "Well, it's _North Korean_ breakdancing," she clarified.  "Which is a distinct sub-genre... of breakdancing."

"Oh, mmkay," Beca nodded.  "That makes sense."

"I can show you another move, if you'd like?"

"You know, you should probably conserve some of that dancing energy, for rehearsal?  It's gonna be a long two days."

"Urrh, yeah, about that," Amy said with a distinct lack of excitement.  "Hear me out.  We're performing for the Monistat and Viagra set, and those cheap menopausal hags aren't even handing out trophies.  So I was thinking, hmm, what if we just stood there?  And sang?  Try something new, and... revolutionary?"

"Like, just standing there, on the stage," Beca repeated.

"That's the idea."

"Not moving.  No choreo, at all."  

"Exactly," Amy nodded, pointing at her, already edging toward the door.  "Glad we're on the same page, then.  So, I'll just let you work that out with Chloe, while I go for a smoothie run, yeah?"

" _Yeah_ ," Beca had scrunched up her nose and pretended to look regretful.  "I don't think Chloe's gonna go for that.  And you should probably change into some more comfortable shoes, so we can get started."

"Beca," Amy had stopped and sighed, looking defeated.  "Don't take this the wrong way, but L.A. has turned you into a stone cold bitch."  She paused.  "And I can't lie.  I kinda like it.  It's a good look on you."  

After Amy, everyone else had begun to arrive in a quick stream, with time for no more than brief recaps of what they'd been up to.  Flo was next, greeting them with a joy that seemed slightly frantic and brittle around the edges, and missing some of her trademark deadpan irony.  She hinted that she'd managed so far to avoid deportation after the expiration of her student visa by joining up with an “amazing organization” that seemed to require a lot of time spent writing fake news stories and making strategically unnecessary edits to Wikipedia pages.  With a covert glance at the ceiling, she’d leaned in close and finally dropped her smile, whispering cryptically, “Do not judge me for anything I say or do in the next few months, it will all be worth it when my citizenship comes through.  And then I will take my revenge.”  She’d straightened up and regained the smile, saying in a bright, overly loud voice, “Now let’s get to work and make acapella great again, hey?”  Beca and Amy were left to ponder this in confusion as she moved away.

Right after Flo came Jessica and Ashley, together as usual.  After graduation, they'd remained in Georgia, and they explained that for the past few months they'd been earning money playing zombie extras on The Walking Dead.  Beca had been both intrigued and disturbed by this information.  "Wow.  What's that like?"

Jessica explained,  "Basically, we're just supposed to wander around in the background and not really say anything or make eye contact with anyone?"

They'd glanced at each other.

"So... you could say we’ve had a lot of experience," Ashley added dryly.

Beca had nodded, not sure what to say.  She'd settled on, "Well, at least now you get paid for it, right?"

Next to arrive was Lilly, who somehow managed to appear behind everyone as if she'd been standing there the whole time, even though no one had seen her come in.  They already knew that she'd moved to south Florida last year, and now she revealed that she was making ends meet through a variety of jobs.  Or at least they thought that's what she said.  It sounded like a whispered, "Just been growing medical marijuana and running some pyramid schemes."  Off of their usual mixed reaction of confusion and incomprehension, she'd added,  "I scare old people for free."  Then she smiled.

At that point, they'd all experienced a collective jolt when they looked around and realized there was what appeared to be a Catholic nun standing in the doorway, in full, flowing black habit, including a headpiece with a veil.  There were some gasps from the group and a low, mystified " _What the hell_?" from Amy.  This nun was gorgeous and looked eerily familiar, but it wasn't until she spoke that they could identify her with certainty.

"Greetings, Bellas," she'd said, beaming at them as if bathed in holy light.  "What a blessed day for a reunion."

Everyone had remained frozen, rooted to the spot in shock.  Finally, Beca exclaimed, "Stacie?"  

"Yes.  It's me."  She stepped demurely into the room and came to join them.  "Thanks to the power of the Lord, I finally realized the error of my sinful, fornicating ways," she explained, still smiling in that creepy beatific manner.  

Everyone looked at each other, but no one seemed to know how to react, and there was another stunned silence.  

Then Stacie laughed and yanked the veil off her head.  "No, I'm totally kidding.  I'm shooting an adult film across town, it's based in a convent.  I just didn't have time to change out of my wardrobe before I came over."

"Quick, everyone try to act more surprised than you really are," Amy mumbled.

"Oh!" Chloe exclaimed, now that she’d finally ended her phone wrangling and come to join the group.  "So, you're... doing porn?  What happened to your lab assistant job?"

"Yeah, they ran out of funding, but this was always kind of a dream of mine, so when the opportunity came up I just couldn't say no,” she explains in a breezy and not terribly convincing way.  “But don't worry, I've got my standards," Stacie had assured them.  "It's the classy Cinemax kind, there's no _actual_ penetration."

At this, Amy grimaced.  " _Still_ not a good enough reason to bring out the p-word."

Chloe had glanced at Beca, as if waiting for her to offer her input on Stacie's current career path, but nope, she wasn't touching this one.  So Chloe continued in a supportive tone, "Well, I think it's great that you're doing what you love.  Not all of us can say that."

"Thanks, Chloe," Stacie said as she gave her a quick hug.  "Technically, though, I'm just playing the shy nun who watches all the action and touches herself," she told them, and it was plain to see she was a little bummed about it.  "I don't even get to take my habit off.  But, fingers crossed one of the main girls gets sick!"

Chloe hesitated, then gave her a bright, "Yeah!" while raising her hands to show her crossed fingers.  But as Stacie turned away and headed off to change into her practice clothes, she'd looked at Beca and uncrossed her fingers, shaking her head and mouthing, " _Nooo_."

The last of the group to arrive was Cynthia-Rose, who'd announced her presence with a cackle as she tossed her bag on the floor.  "Tell me you bitches did _not_ start this shit without me!"  Stacie, by that point mercifully looking like herself again, had squealed and run to her for a hug.  

They already knew that Cynthia-Rose's engagement hadn't worked out; it had fizzled shortly after Worlds, in fact.  Like most of them, she wasn't in a serious relationship at the moment, and aside from a summer as a counselor at an arts camp near her hometown in Tennessee, she'd been spending much of her time lately pounding the pavement in both Atlanta and New York, shopping around her demo and hoping for a recording contract.

"Just keep gettin' the same damn thing over and over.  They love my voice, they love my flow, then I come in for a meeting, and after that I never hear back.  One of those suits told me I don't have ' _the right look_.'" She put air quotes around these words.  "The hell you think that's supposed to mean?"

The rest of the Bellas had shifted uncomfortably and avoided direct eye contact.  Only Amy nodded knowingly.  "Yeah, used to get that a lot in my modeling career.  In my experience, it's sometimes hard for them to process too much sexy at once."

Stacie had a suggestion.  "Ooh, you should get hair extensions, it'd be super cute."

Cynthia-Rose turned her full attention on her, with a sly look.  "Ya think?"

Beca had realized that out of all of them, Cynthia-Rose appears to be the only one aside from herself who's seriously attempting to pursue a career in the music business.  She'd wanted to talk to her about this in much more detail, but there hadn't yet been time due to the frantic pace of the rehearsals, which had lasted all day yesterday and most of today.  

Now, in the dressing room, Beca glances back at her again through the mirror and realizes - oh, yep, the shoes are off.  The toes are out.  She cringes as she hears a series of tiny muffled pops, trying not to shiver.  Checking the clock, she realizes there's still nearly twenty minutes left until they're supposed to go on stage.  She has no idea how the hell they're going to make it that long when they're already this tense.

She's startled out of her thoughts when Amy suddenly looms up next to her and slaps a grilled cheese sandwich onto the vanity counter.  "Here we are, then."  She bends closer to mumble, "Added extra cheese for you, don't tell the others."

Beca glances at the sandwich, making a face.  "I don't want that."

"Beca."  Amy stares at her, not playing around.  "You have to eat it, or it's bad luck."

" _What_?  That is not even a thing.  You just made that up."

"Maybe I did," Amy admits with an offended shrug.  "Orrr, maybe, you are not an expert on all the things.  So, the question is, do you want to be the one to put a grilled cheese curse on the entire group?  That is a big load to carry on such tiny shoulders."

Beca has no patience for arguing about something so stupid, and now she's also feeling just a little superstitious, because what it if is bad luck?  So she sighs, grabs the sandwich.  " _One_ bite," she says, chewing off the smallest corner she can manage.  Her face contorts in disgust.  "This tastes like burned hair!"

Amy reaches out and pats her lightly on the cheek.  "You are welcome," she enunciates.  "Got one comin' up on the barbie for ya, Chloe!" she announces as she returns to her temporary kitchen.  Chloe still has her earpods in and has missed the entire exchange, but she hears her name and looks confused.

As soon as Amy's gone, Beca pulls the small trash bin from under the counter and spits the bite out, dropping the rest of the sandwich in after it.  Then she leans her elbows on the surface in front of her and rests her head in her hands, digging her fingers into her hair and letting the ends of it hang down to curtain her face.  She takes a few deep breaths and tries to ignore everyone behind her, tries to ignore how _extremely_ annoying they seem at the moment, tries to avoid snapping at someone just to alleviate her tension.  Or maybe she's just trying to avoid freaking out.  Because she's not sure what they really think they're doing here tonight.

The fact is, they're out of shape, they're out of practice vocally, and most of them no longer have any day to day interaction with each other.  They're not the Bellas anymore.  This whole thing is a huge gamble, and maybe they're crazy for trying to pull it off.  But Chloe hadn't hesitated when she'd been asked if they could do it.  There hadn't even been a discussion, she'd just said yes, and then contacted everyone to let them know it was happening.  (Beca doesn't know whether it says more about Chloe's persuasiveness, or about the current sad status of most of their lives and careers that everyone had so readily agreed.)  That was only a week ago, and even though they've all spent that week doing vocal warm-ups on their own, and even though Chloe sent them the choreography basics to learn before rehearsal, and even though the two days of practice seemed to go fairly well, all things considered... is any of it enough?  Or are they going to get out there and destroy the reputation they worked for years to create with one humiliating disaster of a performance?

_Get it together, Mitchell_ , she lectures herself.  She's supposed to be the leader here, she's supposed to inspire confidence.  If she loses her shit, they'll all lose their shit.  She's got to snap out of it and at least pretend she isn't worried.

She's distracted from these dire thoughts by the sound of humming; actually, she realizes, the humming has been going on for a few minutes, it's just that it's gradually getting louder.  Reluctantly Beca rotates her head in her hands and glances to the left, confirming her suspicion that it's coming from Chloe.  She's still doing her makeup, earpods hooked to the phone resting next to her on the counter,  and now she's actually moving a bit to the beat, nodding along in that adorably dorky way that Cynthia-Rose refers to as her "whitegirl bopping."  She looks up and catches Beca's eye in the mirror, increasing her volume even more.  The part of Beca's brain devoted to music automatically sifts through mental files to pinpoint the melody; Taylor Swift's _22_.  

Now Chloe raises an eyebrow at her, as if to invite her to join in.  Beca smiles a little, but shakes her head in a way that clearly conveys _Nope, not happening_ .  Chloe's expression seems to reply _Hmm, we'll see about that_.  They're getting pretty good at having entire conversations without words.  

But apparently Beca isn't the only one to recognize this particular tune, because now someone else starts humming along.  She glances behind her, not very surprised to see that it's Stacie.  Chloe seems overjoyed to have an accomplice, and, as if on a prearranged cue, they both switch from humming to singing at the chorus.

And then, predictably, it's only a matter of time before everyone else realizes what's going on and joins in.  They don't _just_ join in, of course; being who they are, they turn it into a full-fledged acapella arrangement of the song, complete with faux-instrumentals and Lilly easily picking up the beat.  Beca goes back to applying her makeup, determined to ignore them.   They really don’t have time for this.

But try as she might, she can't stop watching them through the mirror, and she has to make an effort not to laugh.  They're just singing casually, but they're all getting way too into it, Taylor Swift would be proud.  Or possibly mortified.  Chloe is outright dancing in her seat, pouring her heart into the lyrics as if she's actually twenty-two herself, and not twenty-seven.  At some point Stacie can't contain herself anymore, she's up out of her chair.  Circling around the room, she pulls Chloe up to join her.  Other than Beca, the rest of them likewise soon abandon their hair and makeup preparations and treat like this like it's an actual performance.  Even Amy's given up on her chef aspirations for the moment, and is using her crimping iron as a fake microphone.  The whole thing is made even more ridiculous by the fact that they're all wearing some kind of late eighties flair; a miniskirt or headband here, some leg warmers and a side pony there--Chloe's idea, to honor the alumni class they're performing for.  (Beca had managed to escape with just a denim vest and a sequined belt, and she's hoping she may yet find a way to ditch the belt before they go on stage.)

While everyone but her continues singing, Beca deliberately concentrates on her lip liner, avoiding making eye contact with Chloe, because she knows there's soon going to be an active campaign to get her to join in.   _They do not have time for this_ . But it's hard not to peek.  She glances up through the mirror to find that now Stacie is actually standing and dancing in a chair, a maneuver she manages with remarkable grace, considering the chair is the rotating kind.  Cynthia-Rose hovers below her, as if prepared to break her fall if necessary, possibly hoping it _will_ be necessary.   Beca wonders if the nerves are making them all a little nutty.  Even Jessica’s busting out some awkward moves (it’s not clear whether they’re unintentionally awkward, or a deliberate Taylor homage), and she at least can usually be counted on for sanity at times like this.

_It feels like one of those nights / To ditch the whole scene / It feels like one of those nights / We won't be sleeping_

Finally the moment comes, as Beca knew it would.  Chloe zeroes in on her, dancing in her direction, approaching behind her chair as Beca tries and fails to ignore her in the mirror.  But it’s impossible to ignore the fact that her chair is now being gripped and spun around in one quick yank--“ _Oh my God_!” she protests.  Chloe only grins and keeps singing at her, now leaning forward with her hands balanced on the armrests of the chair, leaving Beca nowhere to escape.  She’s timed it perfectly so that the words she’s singing with not even an attempt at subtlety are the lead-up to the chorus.  

_You look like bad news / I gotta have you / I gotta have you_

Not for the first time, they all pause at the chorus to wait for Beca to give in and submit to their harassment.  Because that’s what this is.  It is musical harassment.

And she’s powerless to resist it, of course.  Even as she rolls her eyes, she’s smiling.  Briefly she considers pretending she doesn't know the words, but nobody would buy it.  They know her too well by now.  They know how weak her defenses are when it comes to even the cheesiest of bubblegum pop.  So she sighs and gives them what they want, joining in at the chorus.

_I don’t know about you / But I’m feeling twenty-two / Everything will be all right / If you keep me next to you_

Though still seated, she even consents to throw in some dance moves, and adds in a little fake attitude on the line _You don't know about me_ , much to Chloe's delight.  

And now that they’re finally all in sync, as a group, it happens.  Beca feels that familiar subtle shift take place in the room, an almost physical sensation, like the satisfying click of a headphone jack sliding into place.  It’s a feeling she remembers viscerally from their performing days, that moment when, as Chloe had predicted earlier, they _mesh_.  And how fitting that it’s happening now, not during grueling rehearsals or even on stage in front of an audience, but while they’re just screwing around and singing for no one but themselves, acting like the massive dorks they will apparently always be.  Beca feels the greater part of her anxiety over the coming performance lift and dissolve, and she sends out a silent thank you to Taylor Swift for helping them get their groove back.

Suddenly, as if the song itself has summoned her into being, the door is flung open and Emily is there in their midst,wearing a fuzzy purple bathrobe with matching slippers and looking incongruously as if she just climbed out of bed.  She seems not at all startled by the fact that she’s walked into the middle of a group sing, taking the situation in stride and immediately joining in for the last few bars.

As the song finally winds down and ends, they all cheer for Emily's entrance, and Amy hollers, "What up, Legacy?"

"Hey guys!" Emily says brightly, but then immediately follows it by holding a hand up to ward them off, saying, "Nobody try to hug me!  I am literally crawling with millions of tiny parasites.  I saw them, under a microscope.  They are... _horrifying_."  She's still smiling as she says this, it's only her eyes that reveal a comic distress.  "I'm actually supposed to be quarantined right now, so, I had to sneak out, but I just couldn't stand knowing you guys were here without coming to say hi."

"Yeah, _how_ exactly did the whole scabies thing happen?" Chloe asks her.  "Nobody gave us any details."

"Oh, it's actually a really cute story," Emily tells them.  "See, we decided that we should get a puppy for the Bella house, kind of like a mascot?  But the thing is, we were all broke, and even the shelter wanted an adoption fee.  So, um, we basically just went and found one living in an alley and brought it home."  She slides her phone out of her bathrobe pocket, then scrolls until she finds a picture.  "Yeah, see?"  She holds it out to show them a close-up shot of a tiny scruffy-looking mutt, earning a chorus of _awwws_ .  "Her name is Harmony," Emily goes on proudly.  "She's so, so sweet, she gives the most adorable little puppy kisses.  Unfortunately, she _also_ gave us all the mange."  Her face falls a bit.

The assembled Bellas try and fail to not look grossed-out.

"But, it's okay!" Emily insists, back to smiling.  "We're all gonna be fine in a few days, we just have to keep applying the ointment, and also, under _no_ circumstances, touch anyone."

No one seems quite sure how to respond to this, so Chloe steps in after a brief pause.  "Well, we're glad you came to see us anyway," she says, sounding as if she genuinely means it.  "And we would definitely hug you if we could."  She takes a subtle step backwards.  "But, yeah, please don't touch us."

Everyone tries, without making it too obvious, to move just a little bit further away from Emily.  They go back to what they were doing before the impromptu musical number, finishing up last minute hair and makeup, consulting each other on wardrobe details, everyone now looking a lot more relaxed and performance-ready.  Emily moves across the room with a specific destination in mind.  As she passes by Amy, who's mercifully putting away her grilled cheese materials, Amy raises her fingers and makes the sign of the cross to ward her off.

Pulling out a chair next to Beca at the vanity counter, Emily turns it to face her and then very carefully sits on it, making sure to keep her skin from touching any surfaces.  "Hey, Beca!" she greets her, in an enamored-yet-trying-to-be-casual voice.

Beca caps her lip liner and turns to smile at her, offering a jaunty, "Hey girlfriend, what's up?  Oh, _no_ ," she winces, immediately appalled at herself.  "I can not pull off _girlfriend_ , can I?  Thought I could, but... nope."

"Mmm, been there," Emily nods knowingly.  "And anyway, I should be asking _you_ what's up, Miss Hollywood."

"Oh."  Beca scoffs a little.  " _Hardly_ .  The area where I live is called El Segundo, my apartment is literally between the airport and a sewage treatment facility.  And the old Italian lady who lives in the other half of my duplex is probably insane, and will most likely kill me one day."  She adds, "But the beach is only like five minutes away, so there's that, if you're a fan of... sunshine."  Her expression indicates she is not, in fact, a fan.  " _Or_ if you live with someone who likes to drag you there every chance she gets."  

"That's right!" Emily exclaims.  "I almost forgot, you and Chloe are, like, roomies now."

"Yep," Beca confirms.  "She pretty much just showed up out of the blue and invaded my place, last summer.  Before that, it was..." she pauses to consider.  "Sorta lonely out there."  Feeling how much of a massive understatement these words are, Beca lets her gaze drift over to where Chloe is micromanaging the removal of Flo's hair curlers, giving out advice and instructions and support like the unofficial team mother she'll always be at heart.  Flo says something that makes her face light up in a brilliant smile.  Watching her, Beca feels her own lips curl upward just slightly, against her will.

"God, that must be so much fun," Emily says.  "I bet you guys have gotten really close, huh?"

Beca turns back to her, now with a startled deer-in-the-headlights look.  "Yeah!  Or, actually, no," she stammers, shaking her head.  "Not really.  Just, like, you know, the same amount as... before?  Because we already were.  Close.  So not any _more_ close, per se.  Just--nothing different.  Nothing... weird, or anything, so," she trails off, hearing the echo of all the unnecessary words she just said.  

Emily looks a little confused.

"Um, what about you?" Beca grasps at a new subject.  "Scabies aside, how are things in the Bella house?"

She seems thrilled to be asked.  "Good!  Like, really good.  We've got a full house this year, twelve members.  Remember that freshman I texted you about, Raveena Patel?  She's like Beca 2.0, she's getting so good at doing the mixes and arrangements, I know she'll be in charge one day."  Emily nods, seeming a bit wistful as she contemplates her own graduation.  "Yeah, and this semester we even have a new transgender girl, Tori.  She can hit the bass notes, _and_ she can sing falsetto.  She has a six octave vocal range, it's insane."

"Really?" Beca says.  "Damn.  That's gonna help you out a _lot_."  She hopes she sounds impressed instead of jealous.

"I know.  Plus, she looks better than me in a skirt.  So, double bonus."

"God, it's weird, I can't believe I haven't even met some of those new girls yet," Beca reflects.  She's not usually the nostalgic type, but she can't help admitting, "It's kinda sad, actually."

"Well, they're dying to meet you.  They would kill me if they knew I was here without them.  You guys are such legends to the new group, that house is like a shrine to you.  We've still got pictures and keepsakes and stuff everywhere... oh, and Chloe left this bra behind?  It's like that magical pair of pants that fits everyone, the girls refuse to wash it.  Yeah, they take turns wearing it on days when they need a little extra dose of confidence.  They call it _ginger juju_."

Beca's a little taken aback.  "Yikes," she mutters, but nicely.  "That's... flattering, I guess?  Little creepy."  She gestures around the room at the other Bellas.  "We're definitely not that important.  It's just us nerds.  You know?"

"But that's only in the real world," Emily says, dismissing that whole world with a wave of her hand.  "In the Bella house, you guys'll always be superstars."

Beca smiles a little, deciding to just accept the compliment.  

There's a lull now, and Emily looks distracted.  She frowns just a bit, staring at her fingernails, and it's obvious she's going to change the subject.  "Hey, listen, um, maybe I shouldn't even bring it up.  But I would feel bad... if I didn't."  She's not doing a good job finding the right words.  "If I didn't at least say that I'm sorry?"

It's now Beca's turn to look confused.  "Sorry about what?"

Emily lowers her voice a little.  "About, you know, you and Jesse?  It really sucks."

" _Oh_."  Beca's face registers genuine surprise, definitely not the good kind.  "Wow.  You heard about that already.  That just happened, like, a few weeks ago."  Now her tone takes on a hint of sardonic bitterness.  "What, was there like a blog post about it?  Didn't realize we were the Jay Z and Beyoncé of college acapella."

Clearly regretting it, Emily wrinkles her nose.  "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, no, it's fine," Beca hastens to assure her, trying to banish the bitchiness.  "Don't worry about it."

"I was just surprised, is all.  I guess I thought you guys were really solid.  And if _you_ can't make it, then..."  She seems to want to reclaim these words before they're even out of her mouth.  "I should just stop talking."

"It's fine, _really_ ," Beca insists.  "It was just, the whole long distance thing, you know?  He's got that amazing grad school scholarship in New York, and I'm three thousand miles away.  We saw each other for like two days every few months.  We actually thought _we_ were gonna be the exception.  The one couple who could make that whole thing work.  But... turns out?" she pauses, smiling a little sadly.  "We're not.  So."  She shrugs.

"Yeah," Emily murmurs, in a commiserating way.  "Still sucks."  

They're silent for a few seconds, and the mood is heavy with gloom.  Beca makes an attempt to get it back on a lighter footing.  "It's cool," she insists.  "It's not, like, some big tragedy.  I mean, really, what were the chances that the guy I met first day of freshman year was the guy I was gonna spend the _rest of my life_ with, right?"

Emily attempts to nod but her face falls a little at this, she glances down at her lap awkwardly.

"Oh!" Beca says, realizing her mistake too late.  "But not... not _you_ .  You definitely will.  I mean, because, you and Benji, you guys are like-- " she stops, another thought occurring to her.  "And _that's_ how you knew.  Of course.  Because Jesse and Benji, those two... _yeah_."  She closes her eyes for a second, wishing it was possible to kick herself in the face.

Emily confirms her guess.  "They tell each other everything.  They're kinda like girls that way."  She still seems a bit crestfallen.  "Um, I don't think anybody else knows, if you're worried about--"

"Oh, no," Beca interrupts her, feeling like a huge idiot.  "It's not even... I mean, I was just being--"  She stops again, and is still trying to think of a way to extricate herself from the floundering wrong turn this conversation has taken when she hears her name.

"Beca!" Chloe's gesturing to her from the doorway.  "I need you for a minute.  Captain duties."

"Okay!" She gives Emily an apologetic look.  "Do you mind?"

"No, of course," she says, swinging her knees aside to let Beca pass.  "I know you guys are, like, super busy right now."

As Beca stands and passes her she starts to squeeze her shoulder, but remembers not to touch her just in time and sheepishly pulls her hand back.  Before she ducks out the door she pauses to tell her, "Hey, um, if you can, stick around after the show, I have an announcement that I think you'll want to hear."

"Definitely!" Emily agrees, flattered but still seeming befuddled after all the awkwardness.  “I’ll just hang out in here until you’re done.”

"Oh my God, thank you," Beca gasps in relief as she follows Chloe into the hall.  "I don't know what it is about talking to her, but I always feel I like I just told a Brownie troop there's no Santa Claus."  She looks at Chloe as she's led further down the corridor, wondering where they're going.  "What'd you need?"

Chloe only gives her a mischievous glance that seems to say _Wait_.  Another few paces, and she finally opens a door on the right and disappears into a dark room, then turns and beckons Beca in after her.

Beca follows, closing the door behind her, but then stops in her tracks, confused, as Chloe pulls a string dangling from a lightbulb to reveal their surroundings.  She looks around at what appears to be a utility closet, not the stage area or green room she was expecting.  There's a massive heating and air conditioning unit in the back of it, as well as an industrial-size sink, and stacked along the sides are maintenance implements like brooms and trash barrels.  

" _Okaaay_.  What is this?  Smells like mop water in here."

Chloe's facing her, hugging herself a little, smiling but also looking nervous, like she's guilty of something.  "Just, try not to be mad."

"What?  Why would I be ma--"  

The word is cut off before she can finish it, with a kiss.  Chloe pushes into her with a kind of desperate haste, nearly lifting her off her feet, causing her to stumble backwards against the door behind her.

Beca pulls in a sharp breath through her nose as she angles her head to meet her in the right position, caught up in the unexpected passion of the impact and instinctively just going with it.  She brings her hands up to Chloe’s face, at first for balance, but then keeps them there after her balance is restored.  After a few seconds of this heated, somewhat frenzied making out, her eyelids flutter as she forces herself back to her senses with a massive act of willpower.  Still kissing back, she nevertheless pulls focus enough to run her hands down the trajectory from Chloe’s face to her neck to her shoulders, which she grips, and then (after another brief hesitation and an obvious battle with herself) shoves back away from her with firm intent, breaking their lips apart.  

Shocked and a little out of breath, Beca stares at her, eyebrows raised.  “What the hell are you doing?"

Chloe steps back just the slightest bit, smiling, again with that impish gleam in her eyes, and says in a conspiratorial way, "Okay, confession time.  So, back in our Bellas glory days?  Always before each competition or performance, I would make sure to find a little private space like this... like, a closet, or an empty sound booth, or something?  Aaaand the reason I did that was so that I could have a little, you know," she tilts her head and delivers a quick wink.  " _Me time_."

It takes a few seconds for the meaning of the words to fully register on Beca, and when they do, her eyebrows shoot up even higher.  " _What_?" she laughs, still a little out of breath.  "Are you serious?"  A thought seems to dawn on her.  "Oh my God, is that why you were always so late getting to the stage?"

Chloe shrugs a little, unembarrassed.  "Sometimes I had to touch up my hair and makeup afterwards."  Beca's still looking at her like she's crazy, so she adds, "Don't judge, it was a great way to relieve those pre-show jitters.  Really composes the mind.  I mean, it's better than puking all over everyone, right?"

Beca's struggling to find words.  "I just..." she tries.  "Congrats.  Every time I think you can't get any more weird?  You prove me wrong."

She starts to turn as if she's going to leave, but Chloe grabs her wrist to still her.  "Wait!  What I was gonna say was that, it was fine, you know, the way it was.  Solo.  It got the job done.  But I always thought it would be so much more fun..." she pauses, lowering her voice into a flirtatious register.  "To make it a duet."

Not sure how to reply, there's a hint of uncertainty mixed in with Beca's amusement.  "Like, with _me_?  Or just, with anyone?"

Chloe's answer to this is to bite her bottom lip coyly and then to step forward, coming in fast for a second kiss while Beca's still distracted and trying to process what she just heard.  This one starts out less forcefully, building from a slow burn, but building fast.  Instead of pushing her into the door, Chloe grasps her around the waist and tugs her forward, against her own body, making a kind of low, satisfied humming sound that might count as a giggle if it wasn't so laced with desire.  

Beca lets this one go on longer than the first kiss, again bringing her hands up to Chloe's face to push her away, but seeming to forget what she was planning once they're there, because there's now tongue involved and it's very distracting.  And then, somehow, her hands are buried in Chloe's hair, which is also most certainly not the direction they were supposed to be going.  It's just that she's having a hard time remembering where they _were_ supposed to be going.  The scent of Chloe's perfume is intoxicating and everywhere, and there's definitely not enough oxygen in this tiny room.

Finally, Beca forces her eyes open and breaks the kiss with a sharp, audible gasp, equally annoyed at Chloe and at herself.  "Dude, _no_!" she whisper-yells as she steps back and crosses her arms to restrain her traitorous hands.  "Not here!  What if someone finds out?"

"I don't care about that," Chloe says casually.  It seems the idea hasn't even occurred to her before.

"Well, _I_ do," Beca says.  "Like, a lot.  They can not know about this."  

"Oh."  Chloe seems a bit taken aback.  "Okay.  If that's what you want."  

"It's just, they would completely get the wrong idea, they would think it's _for real_.”

A tiny flicker of something that might be hurt passes over Chloe’s features, but she masks it with incomprehension.

Not noticing, Beca continues, “Besides, this," she indicates the closet, "is not, like-"  She's flustered, babbling.  "I mean, we don't do _this_ ."  Seeing Chloe’s confusion, she elaborates.  "This whole thing we've been doing lately... that we don't talk about."  She looks miserable, briefly covering her eyes with her forearm, murmuring, "That I can't believe I'm talking about right now, ohmygod..."  She forces herself to look at Chloe again.  "It's not this, you know what I mean?"  She tries again, with a blunt, "There are _rules_!"

Now Chloe seems to be catching on.  "Oh, right.  The rules,” she nods.  “Yeah, even though we've never actually discussed them, from what I can gather the rules are..."  She counts them off on her fingers.  "Only in the dark.  Only in bed, preferably yours because it's bigger.  And only if one of us just climbs in like we didn't know the other one was there, and then in the daylight we pretend it never happened."  

Beca slowly nods, as if waiting for her to hear what she just said.  "Exactly.  So..." she gestures a second time at the closet, at the whole situation they're in right now.  " _This_ is pretty much breaking all three of them."

Chloe twists her mouth as she looks around thoughtfully, then reaches up and gives a quick tug to the light bulb's cord, plunging them into darkness.   "Just two now," she whispers, pleased with herself.

"Chloe?" Beca says in a calm, deliberate tone, like she's talking to a crazy person.  "I am _leaving_."

"Okay, you're right, you're right," Chloe stops her again, a conciliatory note in her voice now.  "I'm sorry, Beca.  I know I'm breaking the rules.  I was afraid this might be out of your comfort zone, and I did it anyway."  She pauses.  "It's just, you seemed pretty stressed out about the performance, and then even _more_ when you were talking to Emily.  And I know how you get when you put your foot so far in your mouth that it almost comes out your butt.  It's actually kinda cute to watch, but it makes you all tense and fidgety."  She brings her hands up to lightly circle Beca's bare arms just above the elbows, her thumbs stroking in a tentative, soothing way.  Her voice drops into an even softer register.  "So I was just thinking, maybe you could use some... tension relief, before we go on stage.  That's all."

Beca can't help smiling at this justification, even though it's too dark for Chloe to see it.  "So, you really brought me in here for _my_ benefit."

She feels rather than sees Chloe lean closer to her face, where she says in an emphatic whisper, " _That's_ how good of a friend I am."

Beca can't resist a quiet huff of laughter at this.  " _Yeah_.  Apparently."  She's trying her best to ignore Chloe's thumbs, which are still stroking her arms and maybe inching upwards just the tiniest bit.  If it wasn't so dark in here she would have stopped it already.  "But I don't think you're gonna have time to prove your friendship right now.  Have you forgotten we're going on in, like, ten minutes?"

"I can work with ten minutes."  There's a sly, vixen-ish tone to her voice.  "Maybe not my _best_ work, but the CliffsNotes version, for sure."  By this point her hands have migrated up even further, her thumbs oh-so-innocently skating over the sides of Beca's breasts as she squeezes her upper arms, remarking in a concerned way, "Beca, your shoulders feel really tight.  You know, it's dangerous to dance like that, you could pull a muscle.  As the choreographer, I don't know if I can let you go out there if you're not properly _warmed up_."

"Pretty sure that's like the third reason you've given for why we're in here," Beca whispers.

"Is it?  Hmm.  Well, if you're keeping track, here's a fourth one."  As she says this she slides her palms back down Beca's arms and grips her hands, then brings them up to lightly skim Beca's knuckles over her own chest.  "Feel that?" she asks.  "I could cut glass with those right now.  And this is a padded bra!"

" _Dude,_ oh my God! _"_ Beca laughs, yanking her hands back as if she's been burned.  "Seriously?"  She tries to compose herself and inject some authority into her voice, lecturing Chloe, "We need to get back out there!  We're still technically the captains of this group, we have to make sure everything's squared away.  You're the one who roped us into this whole thing!"

Chloe seems to be considering this, then after a few seconds she sighs, apparently a sigh of relinquishment.  "Fine.  You're right, it was a crazy idea, anyway.  It's just that I always wanted to do this, so I had to try.  But, no, we should go."

" _Yeah_ ," Beca agrees, although she's maybe just a little surprised (a little disappointed?) at how easily she's given in.  "Like, now."  She reaches out backwards, groping to find the door behind her and to get her bearings in the almost total darkness.  

But before her hand can even locate the doorknob, she feels warm breath on the side of her neck.  And then Chloe's leaning into her and dropping light, feathery kisses along the curve where her neck meets her shoulder.  Where Beca's hair is in the way, instead of brushing it back with her hand, she blows gently, raising chills, then immediately follows the cool air with the returning warmth of her lips.

Beca starts to protest, actually opens her mouth to speak, but then finds that no words are waiting to come to her rescue.  And there's no use trying to pull away, because the door's already at her back and there's nowhere to go.  Or at least that provides a convenient pretext for not making the attempt.

After a few seconds she manages to utter only a quiet and not particularly forceful, " _Chloe_.  Really?"

Chloe pulls back a few inches with an innocent, "What?"  She pauses, then adds with a slight air of censure, "Beca, we need to go.  What are you waiting for?"  

" _I'm_ not the one-- "

Before she can get any further than this, Chloe's back at her neck again, this time starting at the hollow of her throat, sucking softly at her pulse point.  Beca tries to finish the sentence, but the words are choked off by an embarrassing convulsive swallow.  Her head drops back and knocks against the door.  She's squeezing her eyes shut, even though she can't see anything anyway.   _Damn it._ Now her heart rate is starting to pick up speed, which considering the current location of her lips must be very obvious to Chloe, because Beca can practically feel her smile against her skin.  

Suddenly she remembers that she's supposed to be locating the doorknob.  She gropes around blindly with her right hand until she lands on it, resting her palm on top of the smooth, cool surface.  But she can't quite seem to turn it, because now Chloe is working her way with unhurried leisure up her throat and then along her jawline, lingering at a spot just under Beca's left ear.  Her mouth is soft and warm and ridiculously skilled, the tip of her tongue darting out with searing precision.  

" _You're insane_ ," Beca attempts to whisper this sternly, but it comes out as more of a pant.  "You know that, right?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Chloe mumbles against her skin.  "But we really shouldn't waste any more time, they're gonna start wondering where we are."  

Then she's moving up a little further, to her earlobe.  Which wouldn't be a huge deal, except that for Beca, her ears might as well be sex organs, they're so sensitive and responsive to touch, a fact that Chloe took note of very early on in their... _arrangement_.  Now her teeth are nipping and grazing along the ear's edge, alternating in dizzying succession with tender, delicate kisses, keeping Beca off balance so that just when she gets used to one mode, Chloe switches back to the other.  And Chloe's breathing is also now starting to pick up speed and become a little uneven, a development Beca can't miss since it's puffing hotly right against her ear.  

Now, to her slight horror, Beca realizes that the thing is happening, the thing she still hasn't quite gotten used to and maybe never will, where it's like a switch has been flipped and she's instantly flushed with fire and overwhelming need.  For these past few weeks this is the thing that's been making her feel like she doesn't know her own body at all and possibly never has.  Because it sure as hell has never done this before.  She would have _noticed_.

But it can not be happening here.  They need to get out of this dark closet, like, immediately.  Making a monumental effort, she grips the doorknob tight and finally manages to turn it.  But the door swings inward, so the only way to pull it open is to step away from it, which means moving forward against Chloe.  And the problem with that plan is that Chloe's knee and upper thigh are positioned strategically just in front of her, very nearly between her legs already - but in the lightest and most innocent way, of course, just hovering there as if by sheer coincidence.  To press forward even a few inches is actually what Beca's trying with all her might to convince her hips _not_ to do right now, because she's pretty sure that if they do, the door will no longer be a top priority.

_Oh God what is happening to me_ , Beca thinks as she exhales raggedly.  She's appalled at herself.  She is not the kind of girl who does stuff like this.  She used to want people to think she was the kind of girl who did stuff like this, but she never was and assumed she never would be--let alone with her best friend, who has a reputation as being most _definitely_ the kind of girl who does stuff like this.  

Suddenly, as if Chloe's reading her thoughts, an especially keen nip to the edge of her ear triggers a sharp gasp, and her hips surge forward involuntarily.   _Shit_.  But Chloe, as if anticipating this reaction, has drawn her leg slightly further back so that she's still just out of reach.  Beca clenches her jaw in frustration, but she refuses to press closer in search of more contact, because that would be letting her win.  

Now she's distracted by an apparent shift in Chloe's focus.  To Beca's relief, it seems she's finally decided to leave the ear in peace, hopefully with time to recover and not appear tomato red and dented with teeth marks when they go on stage.  She's now slowly meandering back the way she came, retracing her path down Beca's jaw line to her neck, kissing with maybe just a little more fervor and heat this time.  She's also making these soft, throaty, apparently unconscious whimpering sounds that wouldn't even be audible if she wasn't so _close_.  But they are audible.  They are most definitely audible.  Because it now occurs to Beca with a growing sense of dismay that she should have brought an extra pair of underwear.  She makes a mental note to never go anywhere with Chloe again without taking a spare.  These are the kinds of thoughts that make her realize just how strange their friendship has become.

With renewed resolve, she squeezes the doorknob even tighter, losing some traction since her palm is now slick with sweat.  And where the hell are Chloe's hands, anyway?  Judging by the angle she's leaning into her, she must be propping herself up against the door, which means her palms are probably planted right on either side of Beca's head.  This is only a problem because Beca now realizes she wants those hands _on_ her, and suspects that Chloe is keeping them from her on purpose.  It's almost as if she's playing a game with herself, to see if she can break through Beca's willpower through the unrivalled skill of her mouth alone.  But of course that's all irrelevant and it doesn't matter what twisted scheme she's up to, because they're not staying in here, Beca reminds herself.  She takes a deep breath and this time manages to pull the door open just far enough to cause the latch to click, which feels like major progress.  

Chloe hears the click and raises her head from Beca's throat, pulling back just a few inches.  "Beca, what has gotten into you?" she asks, all innocent righteousness, as if _she's_ the one being mauled.  "This is getting ridiculous, we have responsibilities.   _Open the door_."  

The door in question is already cracked open, but no more than a sliver, just enough to allow the faintest trace of illumination, so that Beca can not only feel the heat from Chloe's skin, she can just barely discern the outline of her features.  But before she can even contemplate a response to this latest bit of nonsense, Chloe's dipping forward and coming in close toward her face as if she's going for a real kiss this time.  Beca instinctively and shamelessly tilts her head up toward her, the progress with the door already forgotten.  

But instead of the expected kiss Chloe only lingers and brushes her lips against Beca's in the softest and most delicate manner possible, ghosting over them, teasing her.  Then she draws back into the darkness, just a fraction of an inch at a time, staying tantalizingly out of reach as Beca's pulled along in her wake like a magnet, straining forward, her mouth chasing Chloe's without finding it.  A slow smile forms on Beca's lips, into the gap of charged space between them, a smile in reaction to the sheer brazenness of this whole thing, the audacity of such a blatant seduction attempt, and _here_ , of all places.  You have to give her credit for going for it.  This chick is more than a little loco, nobody could deny that.  But at the current moment, she's also maddeningly irresistible.

By this point Chloe has retreated back far enough so that Beca would have to step forward to meet her, and that's where she stops, as if waiting.  In the sweetest and most guileless voice, she now chirps, "Ready to go?"  

To anyone who didn't know her well, this would seem to be a straightforward question about heading to the stage.  To Beca, however, it's actually possible to _feel_ her self-satisfaction and amusement radiating into the darkness.  

It's obvious that there's a decision to be made here, and that Beca is the one who has to make it.  There's no question which is the right choice.  They should already be out of here.  They should be backstage, making sure the mics are all working, checking the lighting, addressing last-minute choreo concerns, soothing nerves, giving pep talks.  Making sure everyone remembered to pee.  Making sure Amy is wearing underwear.  They should have never ducked into this closet at all.  Only a shitty captain would bail on her team with the clock ticking down.

These thoughts are all flitting around vaguely, halfheartedly, somewhere deep in her mind.  But it turns out her mind is not in the driver's seat of decision-making at the current moment.  Apparently there's at least one body part whose vote ranks higher.

Beca leans back against the door until it clicks shut again.  She releases a shaky sigh as she finally lets her hand drop from the doorknob in defeat.  There's a brief pause during which she considers her answer to Chloe's question.  Then, in a breathy, distracted voice, she says, "You know what, they're big girls, I think they can handle it for like ten minutes, right?"

Chloe starts to laugh; then, as Beca steps forward and presses into her hard, pushing her back further into the dark room, the laugh turns into a squeal of triumph that's muffled by a desperate kiss.

* * *

 

A little bit later in the evening, and now showtime is rapidly approaching.  In the old building's dimly lit backstage corridors, a figure is making her way through the gloom.  A tall, blonde figure, elegantly postured, moving in a quick and purposeful stride, her high heels clicking on the tiles with a ladylike but no-nonsense echo.

Amy and Flo are standing around chatting outside the door to the dressing room, seemingly about the merits of Guatemalan breakdancing, when Amy spots this ominous figure heading in their direction.  "Look out," she says in an undertone of alarm, "drill sergeant, twelve o'clock."

Out in the commentators' booth, John is once again peering at a sheet of paper.  

"Now, here's a fun fact for our longtime listeners, Gail," he says.  "It says here in my notes that pinch hitting tonight for the scabies-infested Emily Junk is none other than Bella MVP and living aca-legend Aubrey Posen, whose record for long distance projectile vomiting from a competition stage has _still_ not been bested to this very day.  And that's according to the official ICCA stats."

"Good for her!" Gail enthuses.  "That is an impressive, if humiliating, accomplishment."

"Few have tried, but none have succeeded in knocking her out of that top spot," he adds.

"Well, she earned it, John.  She _really_ earned it.  And I say that as someone who was in the theater that night, and who still, to this day, can not handle the smell of Parmesan."

"Hm."  John makes a face.  "Could have done without that reminder."

In the hallway, Amy ducks her head and attempts to flee with Flo in another direction, but it's too late, they've been spotted.

"Fat Amy!" Aubrey calls.  She strides toward them.

Amy swings around, looking guilty, pretending to be surprised.  "Aubrey!  There you are!  We were just... looking for you," she trails off unconvincingly.

"And not running away like terrified little prison bitches," Flo adds with an ingratiating smile.

"Where'd you disappear to, anyway?" Amy asks as Aubrey comes to a stop in front of them.  "There was a spontaneous jam session, just like old times.  Then Legacy showed up and rained mites on our parade.  Was a bit awkward."

"Um, you know I can hear you from in here, right?" Emily calls hesitantly from the dressing room.

"Like I said," Amy murmurs, adding another silently mouthed, " _Awkward_."

"Well, I'm sorry I missed that," Aubrey explains testily, "but they had our lighting set-up all wrong, _someone_ had to take care of it.  Those filters would have made us all look like we just broke out of a TB ward.  Apparently nobody but me is worried about the details!   _Also_ like old times."

Amy is staring at Aubrey's hair, which is half up, half down, with a portion pulled into a teased-out ponytail on the top of her head and wrapped in a green scrunchie, late eighties style.  She's also wearing large hoop earrings and a pink off-the-shoulder sweater.  "Sorry, just a little confused right now," Amy says distractedly, "because you look... adorable?  But you're still quite scary.  Sort of like if Punky Brewster became a dominatrix."  She glances at Flo, who nods in agreement.

Aubrey looks puzzled at this, but she shakes it off, as if reminding herself why she's here.  " _Anyway_ , the reason I stopped you was to ask if either of you have seen Chloe or Beca?  We're about to go on, and it's like they've just disappeared, no one has any clue where they are.  You know, when I agreed to fill in tonight, I didn't think I'd have to run things.  How that pair _ever_ managed to win two national championships and a world title without me at the helm, I honestly have no idea."

"I'll bet they're already on the stage," Flo offers brightly.

"No, I just _came_ from there," Aubrey snaps.  "Are you simple?"

"Hey now, no need for that," Amy mutters.  Then, off the fierce stare Aubrey turns on her, she drops her gaze and glances sideways at Flo.  "Oh, I was talking to her.  Because she's so simple."

Suddenly, from the end of the hall comes a muted thunk, like someone being knocked into a wall, and then a clatter of toppling brooms and mops.  This is followed by a loud, high-pitched, breathless female moan of pleasure that's sharply cut off, as though a hand has been clamped over someone's mouth.  They all turn their heads in that direction, listening.  Amy and Flo exchange quick, mystified glances.  Aubrey spins back around to face them, almost accusatory.  "What was _that_?"

"Maybe it was a bird," Flo suggests, not at all convincingly.  In reaction to Aubrey's challenging look, she amends this to, "Maybe it was a bird, _ma'am_."

Now Aubrey turns to Amy again.  

"Don't look at me, I dunno!" she proclaims, all innocence.   "Any strange sound that doesn't originate somewhere between here, and _here_ ," she explains, indicating the area between her boobs and her butt, "is out of my domain.  Could be anything."   Then after a pause, she leans forward and adds pointedly, "But it definitely _wasn't_ coming from that janitor's closet.  If you catch my drift."

For a second Aubrey continues to look at them like they're from another planet, but then all at once she sighs and gives up on them both.  "All right, you two head to the stage, now, you should already be there with the rest of them.  I'll get to the bottom of this.  I can see that I'll have to do _everything_ myself."  She dismisses them by turning and starting toward the end of the hall.

"Aubrey, be careful!" Amy calls after her.  "It might be a poltergeist!"

"Or the entrance to a drug cartel's tunnel!" Flo adds.

Aubrey reaches the end of the corridor and approaches the closed utility closet.  She steps toward it, hesitates, then gives a few light raps on the door.  "Chloe?" she calls in a low voice.  "Are you in there?  If you are, you need to-- " She glances up and down the hall to make sure she's alone, then leans closer to the door and whispers sternly, " _Finish up_."

There's a pause, a brief gap of quiet in which only a faint, frantic rustling of clothing can be heard from within the closet, and then the knob turns and the door is pulled open from the inside, just enough for Beca to stick her head out.  "Aubrey.  Hey."

"Oh.   _Beca_."  Aubrey takes a step back, genuinely surprised.  "Sorry, I just assumed..."  She shakes her head, confused.  "Um, have you seen Chloe anywhere?"

She's shaking her head _no_ when, simultaneously, Chloe's voice calls out, "I'm here!"  

Beca's eyes squeeze shut in a grimace of mortification.  Reluctantly she swings the door further open, revealing Chloe standing behind her.  "Found her," she whispers with a tight, ironic smile.

"Hey!"  Chloe beams at Aubrey, not fazed at all.  "Oh, you got your makeup finished," she says approvingly.  "That green eye shadow looks amazeballs on you."

Aubrey manages a " _Thanks_ ," although her face is a mask of bewilderment as she looks back and forth from one to the other.  They're both flushed.  Chloe seems a little out of breath, and her lips are swollen and smudged, plus she's missing one of her star-shaped dangle earrings.  Beca's vest is twisted like someone's been yanking on it, and a chunk of her hair is wildly out of place.  Noticing this, Chloe reaches out and attempts to smooth the hair into order, but Beca swats her hand away, not taking her eyes off Aubrey.

Finally, Aubrey finds words again.  "What the _hell_ are you two doing in there?  We're going on in like three minutes!"

"Wow, we did all that in seven minutes?" Chloe murmurs to Beca, who ignores her.

"Yeah, sorry, we totally meant to be out there by now, but there was a problem with... with the heating system," Beca stammers, as if grasping for any remotely plausible idea.  She gives Chloe a meaningful look.

Chloe catches on, nodding at Aubrey.  "Hot.  Hot, way, _way_ too hot."

Playing off this, Beca adds, "Right, and you know how much it sucks when everyone's sweating all over the stage, it's a nightmare.  So, we found the main unit, to fix it."

"You know how to do that?" Aubrey asks, uncertain.

"Oh, sure, it's not a big deal, we just, like, fixed the-- " Beca gives Chloe a desperate glance.  "The, um..."

"Spark plugs!" Chloe offers.  "Yeah.  Needed serviced."  Gaining confidence, she tells Aubrey casually, "Just, you know, lubed 'em right up."

Beca winces in misery while Aubrey continues to stare at Chloe, baffled.  " _What_?"

"You know what, it's fixed," Beca tells her firmly.  "It's good now.  It's-- it's _allll_ good.  The temp should be fine for us to perform."

Aubrey turns back to her.  "Okay, well, then, let's get out there!  We're already late.  I will _not_ be humiliated for my first time back on stage in years," she hisses at them.  "Chop-chop, ladies!"

"Yeah, okay," Beca agrees, looking intimidated.  Then she realizes she's still not moving, and jumps a little as she forces herself into motion.  "Right."  She edges around Aubrey, not making eye contact, straightening her vest as she heads off down the hall.  

Chloe follows, sidling past Aubrey with an attempt at an innocent smile that turns slightly cowed as Aubrey narrows her eyes in suspicion at her.  She hurries to catch up with Beca.

Aubrey watches them head toward the stage.  Before she turns to follow, she sticks her head into the doorway of the closet and inhales a quick, experimental sniff, her brow knitted doubtfully.  Noticing something on the floor, she leans over and picks up Chloe's missing earring.  She examines it, twisting her mouth in skeptical contemplation.  Then she closes her palm around it, yanks the door shut, and clicks off down the hall after them.

* * *

 

Turns out Aubrey was right, they're late; they make it to the stage just in time for a quick group huddle and a few words about how there's no pressure, this isn't a competition, and they're just gonna have fun out there and enjoy the chance to do this together one more time.  Then it's straight to their places; they're not running out from the wings, instead, the curtain will open to them already on stage.

Beca stands in her designated spot in the hushed darkness, staring up at the rafters, hoping her focus will return before the number starts.  Her heart is yammering and she's rattled; she's not sure why but she has the sense she's made a big mistake.  Or possibly the mistake was in inviting Aubrey to be a part of this whole thing.  Luckily the speaker who's introducing them is taking forever to get to the point, droning on and on about the need for donations to complete the new campus theater that will replace this one, so she has a little time to gather her wits.

She's still attempting to slow her breathing when she hears from behind her an obnoxious whisper.  "Psst."

She ignores it, but it comes again, louder.

"PSST.  Beca."  

It's Amy.

She darts a look back toward her but remains facing forward.  "Yeah?"

Amy comes up closer behind her.  "I couldn't help but notice you've got a little something there," she murmurs through closed teeth, indicating Beca's neck.  "I'm just going to throw this out on the table, but it looks like it _couuuld_ be... lipstick.  Or, have you run into any vampires lately?"

"Oh," Beca covers the spot indicated with her hand, attempting to wipe the stuff off without drawing any more attention to it.  "Thanks."  She tries to sound natural as she gives Amy a stiff smile.  "My hand must have slipped when I was doing my makeup."

"Yeaahh, _I'll_ say it slipped," Amy says, eyes widened in exaggerated disbelief.  "Missed your whole face."  She continues to stand too close and watch as Beca uncomfortably swipes at the spot.  She points and adds in a monotone, "There's also some over on this si- "

"Thanks, Amy!" Beca cuts her off, agitated.  "I got it, thanks."  She readjusts her hair quickly to hide her entire neck, giving her a sharp look.  "Thanks," she repeats, knowing she's already said it too many times.

Amy backs up slowly, hands raised as if in surrender.  "Aca- _fishy_ ," she chants in a high-pitched undertone.

Beca shoots a murderous glance over to Chloe, who's positioned at stage left on the other side of the group, where she's busy replacing the earring that Aubrey has just returned to her.  Chloe winces in sympathy and mouths a covert and adorable _Sorry_ back at Beca.  Shaking her head a little, Beca faces forward, determined not to look at her again.  Only seconds until showtime now.  

In her mind she tries to run through any last minute preparations she might have neglected.  She checks her headset mic and readjusts it so that it’s firmly in place and in no danger of slipping.  She smooths her hair and straightens her vest again, then checks her pants, noting with relief that at least her zipper is up.  Unfortunately the ugly sequined belt is still in place, too bad Chloe couldn't have lost that instead of an earring.  A brief sensation of panic flares up when she reaches for the pitch pipe where she put it in her right hip pocket and doesn't feel it, since it could have been dislodged during all the... activity.  But then after a frantic search she locates it in her left back pocket.  ( _How the hell_?)  She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, trying to regain composure.  

And then, all too soon, the moment is finally here, they've been introduced.  It's happening.  The curtain is opening, the stage lights are on them, and beyond the blinding brightness there's the audience applauding, then quieting down in a hushed murmur to wait.  

Beca glances around, assuring herself that everyone's in position, everyone's ready.  Then she takes another breath, raises the pitch pipe to her lips, blows out a clear, thrilling note into the silence, then softly counts them in.  "One.  Two.  Three.  Four."

_Tonight / Feels like / We can do anything we like / Tonight / Feels like / The best night of my life_

They start moving, slowly circling around each other.

_I'm goin' in / I'm goin' in / I'm goin' in / I'm goin' in_

And then Lilly brings the beat in, and they're back in business.  It's incredible how it all comes back, how it feels like they've never stopped doing this.  They all seem to experience the same familiar rush at the same time, trading knowing, exhilarated glances with each other.

Because of the extreme short notice under which they’d been asked to perform, Beca had chosen to rework some of their older numbers into the arrangement, assuming it would be easier on them all to re-learn a routine they’d once perfected than to start entirely from scratch.  This first section is mostly a mashup of Goin' In by Jennifer Lopez featuring Flo Rida, and Grown Woman by Beyoncé, the latter of which she’d thought would make a nice statement about their new post-graduate status.  Even though, at the moment, she maybe isn't feeling particularly _grown_.  More like a hormonal teenager who did something very stupid and nearly got caught by Mom.  

There are no big solos right out of the gate, it's a group number for the first few bars, and the dancing's not anything too complicated.  But there's something off, something off with _her_ , Beca can feel it right away.  Chloe makes eye contact as the routine brings them together at the front of the stage for the first featured section of Grown Woman, but Beca's gaze skitters away, awkwardly.  She concentrates on not screwing up the steps or the harmonies, but tries to avoid touching her, which is not easy, because this is Chloe's choreography, which always, _always_ involves them touching each other.  A lot.  And how has she never noticed that before?

It's just that she suddenly has the bizarre, paranoid sense that what they did ten minutes ago in that closet is going to be obvious to the whole world.  That somehow, out here, under these bright lights, they can't hide it, and everyone is watching.  It makes no sense at all, but there's no room for rational thought at the moment.  And tonight of all nights is going to be one of the longest performances they've ever done, since they were asked by the alumni organization to double their usual competition set time.  Whatever it is that's throwing her off, she knows she'd better snap out of it, fast.  

Their section now  finished, she and Chloe fade back mid-stage as some of the others come to the front for their moment, and Beca wills herself to calm the hell down.  

At least everyone else seems to be on their game.  The energy is high, their voices are blending perfectly, and so far the choreography is on point.  Even Aubrey's making it look easy, and she's been retired from performing for three years longer than the rest of them.  In fact, she's doing _better_ than the rest of them, although maybe that shouldn't be surprising, Beca reflects.  Aubrey probably hasn't slept all week in order to make sure she's the best.

Up in the booth, John is admiring.  "And the Bellas are back!  Wow, just look at them taking that stage by storm, flaunting it like it's going out of style.  And by _it_ , of course, I mean their rapidly aging bodies.  Gail, is it safe to say they've still got what it takes?"

"No doubt about it, tonight's surprise reunion will bring out the donations this university was hoping for.  That two year absence has just..." Gail makes a dismissive gesture with her hand, "melted away, and it's like they were never apart."

"You said it.”  He muses, "In fact, one gets the sense that perhaps these ladies haven't truly managed to move on from their years here at Barden."

"Well, John, it's no wonder.  When you've won three national championships and a world title before your real life even begins, is there _anywhere_ to go but down?"

On the stage, Beca reminds herself to smile, something she always had a problem keeping up for even a six-minute performance, and which she suspects looks especially unnatural tonight.  Not that she isn't enjoying herself, but she's also nervous in a way she's never been on stage before.  If sex is supposed to release tension, then something has gone horribly wrong.  

For the moment, the focus is off of her, because it's time for the rap bar from Goin’ In, which Cynthia-Rose delivers with her usual impeccable mix of sexiness and swagger.  She's assisted at strategic intervals by Stacie, who manages to sneak in a quick, non-choreographed groping of her own boobs and a wink to the audience on the word _opera_.

But there’s not much time for Beca to relax, because they immediately move into the final group segment of the opening mashup, all of them now lining up next to each other at the front of the stage to reprise their crowd-pleasing hand-clapping maneuver from Worlds, this time set to a section of Grown Woman.  

_Go girl, go girl / She got that bomb, that bomb / That girl, that girl / Can get whatever she wants / That girl, that girl / She got that tight, that tight/ Them boys, they do whatever she like_

Even though they’ve rehearsed this part ad nauseum and Beca had easily mastered it after just a few run-throughs, she now finds herself overthinking it at precisely the wrong instant.  The trick is to let your body learn the motions and trust muscle memory to take over, but instead she lets her increasingly rattled mind get involved, and promptly loses the rhythm.  Her hand keeps coming down in the wrong place, at the wrong time.  It’s mortifying, but luckily she’s on the very end of the row and so she’s prevented from doing too much damage.  On her left, Chloe continues flawlessly as if she hasn’t noticed the screw-up, though Beca knows she must have.  She never misses anyone’s choreography mistakes.

Now they line up in the other direction, in two rows facing each other, perpendicular to the audience, forming a corridor of sorts.  It’s time for the first featured solo, which Chloe (to Beca’s slight annoyance) had requested go to Aubrey.  Starting from the back, Aubrey moves through their human aisle like a bride on her way to the altar, and this is the point where they shift gears musically, into the second number.  It’s a dicey moment in any performance, but Lilly is utterly reliable as their rhythmic timekeeper, as always.  The beat alters seamlessly and provides the backbone the rest of them need for constructing the harmonies.  

It’s not only a different song, it’s the beginning of the special eighties segment of the set, and at the sound of it Aubrey’s smile is like a flower opening to the sun.   From the confidence with which she delivers her first solo lines, it’s hard to believe she’d once choked at this moment.  

_Every time I'm tellin' secrets / I remember how it used to be / And I realize how much I miss you / And I realize how it feels to be free_

Beca can sense the crowd perking up when they recognize the song, _Only in My Dreams_ by Debbie Gibson.  She’d at first resisted this number--Chloe’s idea, again-- because it felt too much like the Bellas' old style, and she was afraid it would taint her reputation as the arranger who broke them out of that mould.  But the fact is, tonight isn't about them, it's about the class of 1987, which also happens to be the year this song came out, and many of the Bellas from that class are here in the audience.  This particular crowd probably isn't clamoring to hear Ke$ha.  So Chloe had won the argument, as she seems to do quite often lately.  Somehow, Beca is finding it more and more difficult to resist giving in.

She has to admit, there's possibly no song on earth better suited for Aubrey's voice and style, and Aubrey’s really bringing it, performing like the whole set so far has been just an extended intro for her solo.  The crowd seems to agree.  Beca's distracted from her own awkwardness long enough to be amused at the fact that some of the middle aged women in the audience seem peculiarly starstruck, as though they've been transported back in time and are actually at a mall screaming for Debbie Gibson.  She glances at Aubrey to make sure she's enjoying her moment.  During a section of the choreography that requires her to turn away from the audience, Aubrey catches Chloe's eye and mimes a silent squeal of excitement, while Chloe beams back proud encouragement and flashes a quick double thumbs-up.  Even Beca can't help smiling a little at the exchange, it's _that_ cute.

But her enjoyment is short-lived, because she’s forgotten that the choreography now shifts to a mini-Dirty Dancing homage, with some bits of Eric Carmen’s _Hungry Eyes_ blended into the Debbie Gibson chorus.  And Beca’s designated dancing partner?  Who else.

Chloe approaches, singing through a huge smile.  It’s clear she’s enjoying the hell out of herself, a fact Beca is equal parts glad for and irritated by.  Of _course_ , having sex in a closet just moments before going on stage wouldn’t throw Chloe off her game.  Apparently it’s a standard part of her warm-up routine; although not usually, Beca reminds herself, with a partner.  But the novelty of a plus one for her backstage shenanigans seems only to have invigorated her.  Whereas Beca still feels a slight shakiness in her knees, Chloe looks like she could do this for hours.  

As they partner up and Chloe pulls her close, Beca once again attempts to avoid eye contact, but it’s not easy given the sexual nature of the mixed salsa and cha-cha they’re supposed to be dancing.  And as if that weren’t bad enough, the lyrics they’re singing right into each other’s faces, layered over the Debbie Gibson song, are _One look at you and I can’t disguise/ I’ve got hungry eyes/ I feel the magic between you and I._ When she finally overcomes her own resistance and makes eye contact, Beca finds, not to her surprise, that Chloe’s eyes are decidedly hungry.  You would never guess that she got laid less than ten minutes ago.  She looks ready to go again, right here on the stage.

The very thought of this causes Beca to tense up.  During a move in which Chloe is supposed to swing her out and then pull her back in, she spins too far and stumbles onto the back of someone’s foot, feeling their shoe come off.  She turns her head to find that it’s Stacie, who’s likewise being unfurled by her dancing partner, Cynthia-Rose.  Stacie turns to give Beca a quick baffled look, but manages to shove her foot back into her shoe and continue on like a pro.  Beca catches Aubrey noting this screw-up.   _Great_.  But other than a raised eyebrow, Aubrey gives no indication that anything is out of the ordinary and continues into her final solo lines.

Thankful when the Dirty Dancing segment is over, Beca is even more relieved when she remembers it’s time for the big slow-down in the middle of the set, which she’d been forced to add so that they’d have a bit of a breather during such a long performance.  It’s also Amy’s solo, _Alone_ by Heart, and Amy strides to her spot at the front of the stage with her usual outsized confidence.  The beat shifts down into rock ballad tempo, and the choreography gradually settles into the same leisurely pace.

As usual, Amy pours every ounce of her energy into wringing the emotion from the lyrics, mugging as if her life depends on it.  

_I hear the ticking of the clock, I'm lying here, the room's pitch dark / I wonder where you are tonight, no answer on the telephone_

In the front row of the audience, Bumper is standing, excited.  "Yes!  Fat Amy _soloooww_ !  That's my wife!" he bellows, pointing at her.  "Crushin' it!"  She blows him a kiss, still singing, and he pretends to catch it.  Then he notices that the people next to him remain seated.  "Get up, _get up_ ," he commands, manhandling them to their feet.  “Get your asses up!"

As the chorus arrives, Beca hears the words as if for the first time, realizing how relevant they are to what just happened backstage, and wondering if Chloe chose this song with just that potential outcome in mind.  She feels her face heat up as she sings the line _I never really cared until I met you._ Chloe is looking right at her with a playful smirk, confirming her guess as they both chime in with Amy for _How do I get you alone_ _?_

_Don’t wink don’t wink don’t wink_ Beca prays.

Chloe winks.

Flustered and hoping nobody else noticed, her tension causes Beca to turn clockwise instead of counter-clockwise like she's supposed to, which means that she smacks straight into Jessica in a full-frontal collision.  Jessica looks ashamed and whispers, " _Sorry_!" as if it's her fault.  Beca decides to let her think that it is.  She's mature like that.

Maneuvering back into the correct position, she takes a deep breath and tries once again to get herself under control.  She can’t believe this is happening to her.  She’s the cool one.  The chill one.  The one who doesn't crack under pressure.  She'd once finished up the arrangement for a set list crouched in the basement with the other Bellas as a tornado touched down a few blocks away, because yeah, maybe they were about to die, but in case they didn't, shit needed to get done _._  This kind of thing just doesn’t happen to her, at least not on stage.  Absurdly, she finds herself wishing she'd eaten Amy's grilled cheese sandwich.  Maybe there _was_ a curse.

Now, finally, Chloe seems to notice that something is off, and she begins to watch Beca with uncertainty, then concern.  The timing couldn’t be worse, because the two of them are the featured soloists for the final number, Rihanna’s _Umbrella._ There's some other eighties stuff folded into the mix; a little _Vogue_ , some Cyndi Lauper, a touch of Janet Jackson.  But the melody line hews closely to the Rihanna original--again Chloe’s suggestion, due to the fact that it’s been a record-breaking rainy winter in the deep South.  (In Beca’s opinion this is exactly the kind of musical pun that makes acapella so annoying, but she’d been overruled.)

As Lilly loops into the intro beat, each of the Bellas moves quickly to a different spot near the back or side of the stage and picks up her own designated umbrella from where they’d been strategically positioned earlier in the evening.  With the way things have been going up to this point, Beca halfway expects hers to be missing, meaning she’d have to perform while _miming an umbrella_ , but no, thank God, it’s right there where it’s supposed to be.  She grabs it and heads back to the front of the stage to take her spot beside Chloe, realizing that she’s now sweating profusely, which is ironic, given her earlier lie about the heating situation.

And now there’s a new problem.  It seems that her awkwardness is contagious, because Chloe has caught it as well.  As she leads off the song, her pitch is fine, but her movements are stiff and too hurried; for the first time ever her choreography is slipping.  Beca knows she’s the problem, but knowing it and being able to fix it are two different things.  

By this point, John is scrutinizing the stage.  "This performance is _musically_ flawless.  But Gail, is it just me, or is there some significant onstage tension between former team captains Beca Mitchell and Chloe Beale?"

Gail shakes her head.  "Mm, John, you could cut it with a knife, their once-tight chemistry is totally MIA tonight.  If I had to take a guess, my wager is that these two ladies are either engaging in some Sapphic whoopie on the downlow, _or_ they've buried a body together, and one of them is going to be forced to take the other out to ensure her own freedom from the law."

"Whoooa," John chuckles, "Drama!"

"As we all know, the deep bond forged during four years of collegiate acapella is one that can go in _many_ different directions," she smiles.

"Amen to that, sister."

On the stage, they’ve now arrived at the chorus.

_When the sun shines, we'll shine together / Told you I'll be here forever / Said I'll always be your friend / Took an oath, I'ma stick it out to the end / Now that it's raining more than ever / Know that we'll still have each other / You can stand under my umbrella / You can stand under my umbrella_

Trusting that her voice and her pitch are safe from whatever weirdness is infecting her like a virus, Beca throws all her concentration into the tricky umbrella choreography.  Sexy, she reminds herself.  This is supposed to be sexy.  Trying to channel her inner Rihanna, she adds a little extra hip action on her _ella ella ella, eh eh eh._  Instead of sexy, what she gets is clumsy, as she attempts to spin the still-furled umbrella like a baton and it nearly slips from her grasp.  She catches it before it falls, but not gracefully.  

“Booooo, this sucks!” Bumper calls from the audience.  “Bring back Fat Amy!”

Trying to ignore him, Beca persists with her increasingly desperate attempts at sexiness.  During another move which requires sliding the umbrella behind her head from one shoulder to the other, the hooked handle catches in her hair and briefly gets stuck.  Chloe cringes, then seems to come to a deliberate decision not to look at her again.  Beca feels another flash of irritation toward her.   _This is all her fault._

But seriously, what were they thinking with this routine?  They should know by now that props are never their friends.  Although to be fair, everyone else seems to be finding it simple enough.  Stacie's the best at it, of course, wielding her umbrella with a sensual passion as if she plans to make love to it later.  She makes it look easy.  Beca tries not to be resentful.

Thank God, it’s almost time for the big finish.  If she can just get through this last section, she’ll be home free.  It feels like they’ve been up here for hours, not six minutes.  Beca vows to herself that if she can just make it to the end of this performance without screwing anything else up, she’ll never set foot on a stage again.  Especially not with Chloe.

The chorus loops around again as the eighties elements are layered in more heavily for the musical climax of the piece.  Now, finally, at the precise moment they’ve rehearsed, they all release their umbrellas at the same instant, creating a sudden bloom of varying bright colors across the stage.  There’s a gasp and an awed murmur of appreciation from the audience.  

"The former Bellas bringing out all the stops here for what looks like a grand finale," John remarks.

Gail's clearly impressed with this number.  "Now _this_ is a visual treat!  It's no secret that this group has a problematic history when it comes to props, but I've got to tell ya, John, these umbrellas are really doin' it for me."

"Well, it's like they always say, Gail," he concurs with an air of finality.  "You just can't beat a good old-fashioned umbrella dance when it comes to representing female penis envy on the stage."

Gail winces, shakes her head without looking at him.  " _So_ close," she whispers.

By this point, Beca is practically counting down the remaining seconds of the set.  One last bit of choreo requires dancing with the umbrellas in their open positions, a bit more of a challenge than when they were closed, but nothing she shouldn’t be able to handle.  Normally she would have vetoed this kind of visual gimmickry, but the truth is, they'd had to pull the entire thing off with such little prior warning that there was no choice but to rely on some stage magic.  The arrangement still sounds good, though, Beca had made sure of that.  They aren't overcompensating for anything, just adding a little dose of pizzazz to some fairly basic choreography.  Or at least it’s supposed to be basic.

Briefly, each of them pairs off one last time, spinning and twirling their umbrellas toward their partners, nearly bringing them face to face, so to speak.  Beca’s partner, of course, is Chloe.  This particular maneuver is only supposed to last a few seconds, then they’re supposed to turn the umbrellas back toward the audience, still twirling them, creating what should be a colorful kaleidoscope effect.  There’s only one problem.  When Beca attempts to turn her umbrella away from Chloe’s and back toward the front, it doesn’t move.  It’s stuck.  

And…. this is actually happening, she realizes with a kind of slow-motion horror.  Just when she thought she was in the clear.  Her umbrella _is literally stuck to Chloe’s._

They look at each other in panic.  Somehow, the metal prongs along the bottom edges of the umbrellas have become attached, hooked together in some way.  

They tug once.  Nothing happens.  Again, slightly harder.  The umbrellas bow and stretch, but remain stuck.  Finally, with the routine already moving ahead and the two of them falling behind, Beca gives an extra fierce yank on her handle.  This time, the two umbrellas separate.  But the force required to pull them apart turns hers completely inside out.

With an apologetic look, Chloe rushes to catch up with the choreography.  Not knowing what else to do, Beca continues to perform with her now mutilated umbrella, never more grateful that the end is only seconds away.  She’s so glad they aren’t actually competing for anything here.  She can only imagine the reaction of a panel of judges.  Even if the audience hasn’t noticed, the judges definitely would.  

Taking a deep breath to prepare for the last big belt of the arrangement, Beca makes one last effort to enjoy the feeling of this final moment, the moment that usually seems to come too soon but this time can’t come fast enough.  They all move together toward center stage and into their finishing note, everyone at the same instant closing their umbrellas back down again with a dramatic _whoosh_ to end the song.  Except for Beca, who can’t close hers in its current warped state.  All she can think to do is to lower it down to the stage, hiding it behind everyone--but not before accidentally jabbing Flo in the ass with it.

There’s always a tense moment in that brief interval between the dying out of the last note and the audience’s reaction, when no matter how they think they’ve done, no one can be positive what to expect.  

But this time, there’s no mistaking they were a hit.  The uproar of cheering is instantaneous and hits them like a tidal wave of approval.  In fact, some of the 1987 Bellas seem to be in tears.  Aubrey gives them a bright smile and a wave.  Beca halfway expects them to mob her for autographs.

The joy and relief of pulling it off washes over them, and there’s the usual frenzy of hugging and hand clasping and high-fives as they bask in the glory of the moment.  Beca heaves a huge sigh of relief, feeling the stress melt away in the obviously non-ironic sound of the crowd’s enjoyment.   _They did it_.  No thanks to her, of course, but somehow,  even with her screw-ups, they made it work.  

When Chloe squeals and pulls her into a tight hug, she doesn’t try to pull away.  She smiles and hugs her back, closing her eyes, relieved that for just a few brief, blissful seconds, everyone else disappears and it doesn’t matter who’s watching.

* * *

 

As they all filter backstage immediately following the performance, Aubrey slips back into captain mode and offers her assessment.  She still seems to be experiencing a rush from her star turn.  "That was good, everyone," she tells them, a little breathless.  "I think it went really well, considering how little prep time we had.  Maybe a bit... rough around the edges," she glances in Beca's direction, but doesn't otherwise call her out.  "But overall, not bad."

Cynthia-Rose is a little more blunt.  "Wasn't bad for two days practice, but damn, Beca, what happened out there?  You were so off, you made Fat Amy look good."

"Resent that," Amy says, pointing at her.  "But," she shrugs, turning to Beca, "It was... perhaps not your _best_ performance ever?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I don't know what that was, guys," Beca says.  "I just couldn't get in the zone, or something.  Maybe it's been too long."

Stacie is even less tactful.  "Or maybe if you'd spent more time focusing on the steps during practice, and less time making goo-goo eyes at a certain ginger..."

"Well, it's over now," Chloe butts in before Beca can indignantly deny this charge, which it's obvious she was getting ready to do.  "No use dwelling on mistakes.  Beca said she was sorry.  It's no big deal, we've all had an off night at some point.  Stacie, what about the time your tampon fell out on the stage, and Lilly slipped on it?"  

Lilly closes her eyes, looking nauseous.  "I convinced myself that was a dream," she says softly.

"Sorry," Chloe tells her, patting her arm in sympathy.  "It wasn't.  Unless your dreams are uploaded on YouTube?"  

"They are," Lilly confirms.

Momentarily bewildered by this, Chloe forces herself back on track and turns to the others again.  " _Anyway_.  The point is, nothing major happened.  Beca didn't throw up, or flash her ladybits, or catch on fire.  So, honestly, with our track record?  An umbrella malfunction doesn't even crack the top five." She looks around at the rest of them, defensive, daring someone to contradict her.  "And the important thing is, the show was a hit!  The audience loved it, and that's all that matters, right?"

Nobody is up for arguing with Chloe, so they all reluctantly agree and begin heading back to the dressing room to change and collect their stuff.  But as Amy passes by Beca, she can't help mumbling in a pointed tone, "Almost enough to make a girl wish we hadn't done _any_ choreo, isn't it?"

Beca rolls her eyes as Amy moves away, but she manages not to rise to the bait.

Chloe hangs back to walk beside her as they follow everyone out of the backstage area and down the hall.  But after a few seconds Beca feels a gentle tugging on her wrist.  She looks at Chloe, who's once again quietly ducking into the utility closet they'd been in earlier, gesturing for Beca to follow her.

"Okay, for real?" Beca asks, although she's already slipping through and closing the door behind her.  "It's only been, like, fifteen minutes, you can not possibly be--"

"No, no, it's not that," Chloe interrupts her, laughing a little.  "I just-- " She examines Beca's face closely in the dim light from the naked bulb above them.  "I guess I just wanted to check and make sure you're okay?  You seemed, I don't know, pretty jumpy out there.  I was trying to _relax_ you, with all this," she gestures at the closet.  "But I think I made it worse.  I'm sorry."  

And even though she’d been annoyed with her just moments ago on stage and prepared to totally blame her for everything, Beca now finds that she can’t do it.  Partly because of the look on Chloe’s face, but also because she just doesn’t want to talk about it.  "Don't worry about it," Beca tells her, but without quite meeting her eye.  "It wasn't your fault.  I mean, we probably shouldn't have--"  She stops, goes back to a safe angle.  "But that's not why.  Like I said, I'm just rusty.  That's all."

"Okay," Chloe says after a second, nodding.  But she's not totally buying it.  "If you're sure.  But you know you can tell me if anything--"

"Yeah," Beca cuts her off, wanting more than anything to just stop talking about this.  "I know."

"Good," she says, in a reassuring way, like she's trying to calm a skittish horse.  "And anyway, I was telling the truth back there, I think it went aca-amazing.”

“Oh, wow, are we still doing that?”

“And besides, the crowd never notices little mistakes anyway.  They really loved us.  Especially Aubrey, I think."

Beca gives a wry laugh, agreeing.  "Yeah, she pretty much stole the show.  You were right about the Debbie Gibson."

"Well, I don't want to gloat," Chloe shrugs, in an obviously gloating way.  "But yeah, I was.  The umbrellas were a big hit too, that was a nice touch."

"Those were _also_ your idea."

"Were they?"  Chloe twists her mouth, pretending to be uncertain.  "I guess you're right."  She smiles, then reaches out in a tentative way toward Beca's neck.  "You've, um, still got some..." Gently, she tries to wipe off the last vestiges of lipstick.

"Oh," Beca says, compressing her lips, uncomfortable but at the same time not really wanting her to stop.  "Yeah, thanks for that, by the way."

"Next time I'll wear a lighter shade."  

She's joking, but when Beca meets her eyes to reply, something like _There won't be a next time_ , the look Chloe's giving her is so tender and adoring that it throws her off balance and she forgets what she was going to say.  The rubbing at her neck tapers to a delicate stroking and then stops, and now Chloe seems to be staring at her lips.  For a second Beca's convinced she's about to kiss her, and she doesn't know how she'll react, because they definitely don't do that.  Only before.  Never after.  Kissing _after_ is a totally different thing.  

But something in her expression must decide Chloe against the impulse, because she finally drops her hand and steps back a little, retreating to a safe level of banter.  "Oh, and I'm glad you were able to find the pitch pipe," she teases, eyes glinting with mischief.  

It takes a second, but realization slowly dawns on Beca's face.  "You bitch," she says, but with a smile.

Chloe can't hide her sense of triumph.  "Just keeping you on your toes, that's all."  She considers these words, then adds slyly, "And you were _really_ on your toes, when I did that.  I think you were even on my toes, a little."

"Oh my God," Beca groans, but she also flushes, and hates herself for it.  "We need to get out of this closet."

Chloe seems to want to make a joke about the double meaning of these words, but she maturely restrains herself.  "Hey," she says, before Beca can make her escape.  Now her expression turns a bit hesitant, which isn't like her.  "On a more serious note, I was thinking that maybe, when we get back home, to L.A., we should, you know, talk about..."  She seems to search for words, settling on, "the thing we don't talk about?  Just to, sort of, make sure we're on the same page.  With the rules, and everything."  Seeing the look of mild alarm on Beca's face, she adds a disclaimer, "Doesn't have to be right away.  Just, at some point."

"Yeah," Beca hastily agrees.  She makes a concerted effort to meet Chloe's eye, at least for a second.  "We should.  Definitely."  Then her gaze flickers away again.  "At some point," she repeats in a vague mutter.

Chloe smiles a little, grateful for even this much of an agreement.  "Okay.  Good."

They look at each other again, and there's a slightly awkward silence before Beca says, "We should probably get back, if we want to give them the news before anyone leaves."

"Oh, yeah," Chloe agrees.  "You're right.  I almost forgot."

Beca opens the door and looks up and then down the hallway, wary, as if checking to make sure it's empty before they step out together.

They make it out into the hall, but before they can start back toward the dressing room, Chloe stops her one more time, a hand on her elbow.  "Beca."

Beca turns back to her, unable to suppress a _what now?_ look of strained patience.

"It was fun out there, wasn't it?"  Chloe looks wistful, her voice warm with nostalgia.  "Performing like that again, all of us together?  I'm so glad they called us, even if it was short notice.  And I mean, even with the mistakes, it was still..." she pauses.  "It was still pretty incredible."

Her expression softening, Beca takes a few seconds to think back over the performance, not focusing on what she screwed up, but just on the good parts, on what it had felt like to be back out there with everyone again.  She thinks about how much it means to Chloe, in particular, and agrees in a matching tone of sincerity, "Yeah.  It really was."

Now Chloe smiles, raising her eyebrows a little, nodding at her as if to urge her on.  She's doing that thing she does where she acts like she's still waiting for you to say something even though the conversation is clearly over.

With a sigh, Beca drags her gaze away and turns to start down the hall, saying affectionately, "Come on, weirdo."

* * *

 

Meanwhile, in the dressing room, everyone else is finishing up last minute stuff, changing out of their stage clothes, getting ready to leave.  Emily is still there too, sitting on the vanity counter in her bathrobe, with the others carefully giving her a wide berth.  

Now that the stress of the performance is behind them, they're all feeling much more relaxed and chatty, in the mood for their typical post-show philosophical musings, tonight's topic apparently inspired by the display of iconic late eighties objects in the theater lobby.

"Guys," Stacie says, yanking her sequined tank top off over her head.  "Serious question.  Who do you think is hotter, Mario or Luigi?"  

"Neither."  Aubrey shudders as she removes her scrunchie and fluffs her hair out.  "They're both _plumbers_."

"Yeah, but they both have mustaches," Emily remarks dreamily.  Off the strange looks she gets, she becomes self-conscious.  "Oh.  Am I the only one who likes those?"

Flo says in a strained-cheerful tone, "Plumbers and other blue collar workers are the true American heroes.  And I'm not just saying that because Kellyanne might be listening."

"Mmmm," Amy hums in consideration.  She whips out an underwire bra through her sleeve with evident relief.  "Neither for me.  If we're ranking Nintendo men, I'm gonna have to go with Toad.  I like 'em small."  She adjusts her now liberated boobs.  "And mostly hairless."

"What about the princess?" Cynthia-Rose waggles her eyebrows at Stacie.

"The princess is a moron," Ashley comments sourly, zipping up her hooded jacket.  "How many castles can one bitch get stuck in?"

Jessica gasps, giving her a little shove.  "That's so mean," she giggles.

"I fell through a warp pipe and skipped over puberty," Lilly confesses.  

They all pause what they're doing to stare at her and ponder these words, but before anyone can comment, Chloe and Beca come through the door.  

Immediately Beca slows to a stop, glancing from face to face, judging the mood of the room. "Hey.  Looks like someone just said something awkward and/or crazy.  Soo, just the usual, then."  Her gaze now takes in the entire group.  "Um, anyway, if everyone could just, like, hang out for a sec?  Before you guys leave to head back to the hotel, or the porn set," she gestures at Stacie, "or wherever, Chloe and I... sort of have an announcement."

Aubrey glances up sharply from changing her shoes, eyes widened in surprise and muted alarm.

"Called it," Amy nods, smug.  "Think we all knew how this whole _roomies_ situation would end," she mumbles out the side of her mouth, to no one in particular.  "Notice how short their nails are, that's all I'm saying."

Chloe glances sheepishly at her fingernails, folding them in to the center of her palms, while at the same time Beca continues in a loud, firm voice, as if she hasn't heard Amy at all, "It's about my job."

" _Ahh_."  Amy looks just slightly chastened.  "Carry on, then."

But Beca seems unsure how to begin, now that she has everyone's attention.  She looks at Chloe.  "Actually, do you want to-- ?"

"No, go ahead," Chloe says.  "It's your moment, really, not mine."

"Yeah, but, I mean, the whole thing was technically your idea.  I never would have thought of this."

"I never could have made it _happen_ , though," Chloe insists.  "That was all you."

Beca smiles at her, still waiting to see if she'll change her mind, palms up as if to say _You sure_?  Chloe's nodding a bit, supportive but also a little flirtatious, urging her forward.  They seem to be stuck.

" _Ahem_ ," Stacie clears her throat impatiently.

Beca jerks her head around, embarrassed, as if suddenly remembering there are other people in the room.

Chloe moves back now and sits down next to Aubrey on the dressing room's battered sofa, taking herself out of the equation, so that Beca is forced to go.

Unwilling to just stand there with everyone staring at her, she rolls a swivel chair a few inches nearer and sits on the arm of it, drawing in a deep breath before she begins.  "Okay.  So, here's the thing, guys."  Everyone moves in a bit closer, taking seats or leaning against the counters to listen.  "You know how I've been working at a record label for, like, a year and a half now, right?  It's called Hang Ten Records, and it's just an indie, but, it's run by some really cool people.   _Strange_ , but cool," she adds as an aside.  "It has its own in-house studio, and mostly I just, like, assist the sound engineer.  I do a lot of auto-tuning, and audio compression, downmixing, stuff like that..." She notices that most of them look a bit lost.  "Um, it's actually kinda boring sometimes?  And creatively... frustrating.  What I really want to do is produce.  I want to do _all_ the production, not just the grunt work.  But the problem is, no artist wants a beginner handling their stuff, and I don't have any real cred yet."

"She's better than most of the pros, though," Chloe throws in, as if she can't help herself.  "They should be begging to work with her."

Beca smiles a little and glances at her.  "That may be a _slightly_ biased opinion.  But, yeah, basically," she agrees, only half joking.  "So, anyway, I've been trying to come up with ways I can get some experience and prove myself.  And, then, a few weeks ago, Chloe had this insane idea."

Everyone looks at Chloe, who nods.  "It was pretty insane," she admits.  "But also brilliant."

"And so..." Beca continues, "even though I thought there wasn't a chance in hell he would ever go for it, I ran it by my boss.  And, it turns out?  He's a total nutjob too, apparently.  Because, he liked the concept, and he wants me to do it."  She pauses for dramatic effect, with everyone still staring at her blankly, waiting.  "He's gonna let me produce an album.  Of _us_.  A Bellas album."  She almost forgets, but then adds, "That is, of course, if you guys'll get on board."

Beca waits impatiently for the room's reaction, but it's somewhat mixed.  There are some confused looks, some skeptical looks, a perplexed " _Huh_?"  The response is more muted than she was expecting, to say the least.  Only Emily seems genuinely excited.

"An album?  Hells to the yeah!" she gushes, arms raised, pumping her palms upward, trademark goofiness on display. "Tinseltown here we come, am I right?  I would totally be high-fiving you all if I wasn't contaminated."  

After another brief silence, Stacie ventures a puzzled, "So, would we, like, have music?  With instruments?"

"No, it would still be acapella,” Beca says.  “I mean, that's what we do, right?"

"An acapella _album_?"  Flo sounds doubtful.  "And people in this country would pay money for that?"

"Well," Beca admits, "probably not many.  But maybe a few, yeah.  There's a niche market for everything."

"Wait," Cynthia-Rose says.  "By Bellas, you mean like _all_ the Bellas?  The new ones too?"

"Oh, no," Beca says quickly.  "Sorry, I should have been more specific.  It would be just us?  Our group, from Worlds."  She hesitates, realizing Chloe is trying to communicate something to her with nothing but subtle eye movements.  Within seconds she gets it and adds smoothly, "And Aubrey too, if she wants."

"Oh," Aubrey says, resting a palm over her chest in gracious surprise while Chloe beams at her and nods encouragingly.  "That's so sweet, I'm flattered.  Of course, I don't know how much time I'd be able to commit, with the retreat to run, but I'd be glad to be a part of it in any way that I could.  And I'd love to see where the two of you have been shacking up, so to speak."

Aubrey's tone is pleasant and _seems_ entirely innocent, but still this last part causes Beca to wait a half second too long before replying, which she does with a tense smile and a not entirely convincing, "Great."  She turns to Emily.  "And Em, I know your schedule's pretty crazy too, with, like, the _real_ Bellas to run and everything.  But we'd try to work around it however we could.  The thing is, we'd have to do the recording pretty soon, because the label wants to fast track it onto their spring slate, so we'd have, like, one week max to lay down all the vocals.  Which means I'd have to work up the arrangements really fast, and then do all the mixing and mastering in warp speed.  Honestly, timing-wise, I'm not saying it wouldn't be tough.  But I really think I could do it.  And Chloe can help.  I've been sort of teaching her some basic studio skills."

Chloe proudly volunteers the information, "I made a mashup!"

"You did?"  Aubrey looks impressed.  

"She did," Beca confirms, smiling but wary.  "It's really cute, it was my Christmas present, actually.  Or, one of them.  And no, you can't hear it," she says, before anybody can ask.  "It's, um, it's just, you wouldn't get it.  Inside jokes."  Chloe's biting her bottom lip and giving her a coy look, which Beca deliberately ignores, turning back to the room at large.  "So...."  She raises her hands in a questioning gesture at them.  "You guys are being really quiet.  I _kinda_ thought you'd be more excited about this."

"It's just that... we're not actually a group anymore.  Are we?" Amy says slowly, uncertain.  "I mean, _hello_ , we're not even in college.  Won't it look, I dunno, a little sad?"  She shrugs, "That is, more sad than acapella usually looks."

"Yeah, no offense, Beca," Stacie says, "but it sounds like something my grandma would buy in a cruise ship gift shop."

Cynthia-Rose is dubious as well.  "It's one thing to get up there and perform on stage, but an album, that thing would be around forever.  Our _grandkids_ would hear it."

"And judge us," Lilly adds softly.

"Man, I _know_ we all thought it was lame when the Tonehangers did it," Cynthia-Rose goes on.  "We gonna be expected to shill it at competitions like they did?  Because that shit would be humiliating."

"No, that's not-- "  Beca's looking frustrated by this point.  "This isn't like other groups recording their own albums, where they have to pay for their studio time and then sell their stuff.  The label would be _signing_ us, as artists.  This is the real thing.  It's, like, a record deal."  She looks at Cynthia-Rose in particular.  "Isn't that what you wanted, dude?"

Cynthia-Rose considers this, not looking convinced.

Amy speaks up again.  "Since we're all thinking it, then, allow me to cut to the chase."  She rubs her fingers together in a classic gesture of greed.  "How much green are we talking?"

"Oh," Beca's expression becomes a bit evasive.  "Yeah, about that.  See, the thing is, the music industry as a whole isn't doing so hot right now?  And indies especially are really struggling.  Plus the label has to cover all the production costs.  So..." she winces, "I wasn't actually able to get us an advance."  They're still looking at her blankly, so she sighs, and clarifies, "There's no money up front."

Now everyone looks disappointed, and even less excited than they were a minute ago, if that's possible, so Beca hastens to add, "But, the upside is that they're offering a pretty impressive royalty split.  It's forty-sixty, so we _do_ get almost half of all the money from album sales."  She hesitates, then forces herself to be honest.  "Which, as Flo has so helpfully pointed out... probably wouldn't be much.  Especially divided between all of us."

Stacie looks briefly enthusiastic as an idea occurs to her.  "What about endorsement deals?  That's how famous artists earn the big money."

"True, but..." Beca's forehead wrinkles in bemusement.  "I think we'd have to _be_ famous for that?"

"Oh."  Stacie crosses her arms sullenly.  "Right."

Now Beca looks around at everybody, her patience wearing thin.  She's torn between getting pissed and just flat-out begging them.  "Look, I'm not saying this is gonna make us rich, guys.  It's more about the experience?  And, okay," she admits, "the thing is, it would be a pretty big deal for me to have an entire album on my résumé, as a producer.  I _really_ need this."  She waits a second for them to get the point.  "But that's not the only reason I'm asking!" she insists.  "This would be good for you guys, too."

Lilly raises her hand.  

They all look at her.  

"How?" she asks.

" _How_?  Well," Beca says, "I mean, there's, like-- "  Then she stops, blowing out a discouraged puff of air and raking her fingers agitatedly through her hair.  Now that she's on the spot she actually can't seem to think of anything specific.  She glances at Chloe for help, who appears to be mulling over a possible answer, but before she can say anything, to Beca's surprise, Aubrey stands up and steps forward.

"Beca, may I?"

"Oh.  Sure."  She cedes her the floor with a defeated hand gesture implying _It's all yours_.

Aubrey turns to face the assembled group, stern and disapproving.  "Ladies, I have to say, I am appalled by what I'm hearing right now.  Since when do we let the fear of being judged or the lack of financial reward stop us from taking chances?  We're _Bellas_ .  We're famous for taking chances, and that legacy is due in large part to Beca herself.  And now that she's asking for our help, you're all gonna puss out like a bunch of weak, spineless deserters?  You should be ashamed of yourselves.  What happened to the sisterhood I worked so hard to instill in this group?  If you think that oath expired when you graduated, you're wrong.  It's for _life_."  

There's a slight sense of guilt and contrition in the room as these words sink in, some reluctant nods of agreement.  Reconsidering glances are being exchanged among the listeners.  

Aubrey continues, rallying them.  "Come on, you all heard how great we sounded out there tonight!  Don't tell me you don't want the chance to sing together again, or that your post-Bellas lives are such hot shit that you're too busy to be there for a friend.  Because really, zombies?  North Korea?   _Nun porn_?"  At this, Stacie crosses her legs and looks uncomfortable.  

"Face it, ladies,” Aubrey goes on.  “You need this, just as much as Beca needs you.  And aside from the goldmine of potential reunion time, this sounds like a once in a lifetime opportunity we're being offered.  Think about it.  An album deal could open all kinds of doors, not just for us, but for all the Bellas still to come.  Now, do we want to rest on our laurels as champions in the small yet distinguished world of collegiate acapella, or do we want to take it to the next level?"

To Beca's growing amazement, she sees that Aubrey's got them, they're nodding, coming around and starting to get on board.  

Aubrey sees it too, and now she goes for the big finish.  “It's like my dad always told me."  Her eyes take on a starry glow.  "Shoot for the moon!  If you miss... at least the fall back to earth will shatter your skull."  She gives them one last emotional nod of encouragement.

The faces of the others register confusion, but Chloe smiles and links her arm approvingly with Aubrey's as she returns to sit next to her.

"Thanks, Aubs," Beca says, moving back to the front of the group.  She adds under her breath, "Inspiring _and_ depressing, as always."  Now she looks around at everyone, giving it one last shot.  "She's right, guys.  There's literally nothing to lose here, and we're probably never gonna get a chance like this again.  So what do you say?  Do we go for it?"

The mood is different now, they're ready to sign on.  Amy's the first to agree.  "Well, I'd have to reschedule some things, a few dacha raves with some deposed Eastern European dictators, and what-not.  But, yeah, I can always make time for you chicks!" she shrugs.  "Why not?"

"Yeah, I guess I'm down for it, too," Cynthia-Rose confirms.  "Just took a minute to get used to the idea of an acapella album... but I guess if it's the only gig I ever get, least I'll be able to say I was a real recording artist, right?"

Stacie has likewise made up her mind.  "If they're in, I'm in," she says firmly.  A new thought occurs to her.  "Ooh, if we do get famous, can we ask the Kardashians to join?"

"Um, can they sing?" Beca asks her.

"I don't know."  Stacie looks at her like she's crazy.  "Who cares?"

"You know what, sure," Beca tells her.  "Knock yourself out, Stace."

" _Yes_ ," Stacie hisses, like this is a real victory.

Beca shakes her head a little, then looks at Jessica and Ashley.  "You guys?"

Ashley gamely lifts a shoulder.  "Any job that doesn't involve hours of applying corpse makeup sounds good to me."

"Me too," Jessica agrees.

"Me three," Flo pipes up.  "And I've never even been on The Walking Dead."  Off of their puzzled looks, "It's a long story," she sighs wearily.

"Okay, then!" Beca says, not wanting to hear that story.  "I will take that as a yes."  Finally, she turns to the last hold-out, palms up.  "So, Lilly, what's it gonna be?  We need our rhythm section.  Peer pressure, everyone's doin' it," she teases.  The rest of the group joins in, encouraging her, softly chanting, " _Lilly, Lilly, Lilly._.."

Lilly seems torn for a few seconds, considering, but then a smile breaks through.  She nods, and everyone cheers.  "Just as long as I can bring my knives," she whispers.

"That is between you and the TSA," Beca tells her, relieved that they've all agreed.  "But... good luck with that."

While everyone is distracted by Lilly's weirdness, Beca glances at Aubrey and mouths a silent _Thank you_ , still surprised at her support.  She's not exactly sure how this would have gone without it, because apparently she really sucks at motivating people, these freaks in particular.  Aubrey smiles a little and gives her a nod that seems to say _Anytime_.  The whole exchange makes Chloe way too pleased; she squeaks as she grabs Aubrey in a sideways hug and shakes her a bit, making her laugh.

"This is awesome, I'm so glad I snuck out and got to be here for this!" Emily is practically glowing.  "And I, for one, can not wait to trap you alone in a control booth again, Beca.  Did _not_ mean for that to sound so creepy," she immediately adds with pointed finger, and without losing the smile.

Beca gives her an amused, understanding look and then lets her gaze take in the rest of the room.  "So, just making sure, we're definitely all in agreement here?  This is _happening_.  Yeah?"  

They all nod, smile, there are a couple of confident "yeahs!" in reply.  

"Okay, then, you know the drill," Beca says, rolling her eyes and trying not to sound _too_ happy.  "Hands in."  Her excitement briefly flashes into a look of alarm.  "Except for Emily."

Emily remains standing safely back from the group, unfazed, and holds out her arm anyway.  "Just, you know, imagine that my hand is in there.  And that it doesn’t have puppy mites on it."

Fired up and animated now, the rest of them all move in close, forming the familiar circle, hands stacked in the center.  The buzz of anticipation in the room is palpable.  Now that the album is for sure going forward, Beca for the first time admits to herself just how much she wanted it--and not just for her career, as she’d insinuated, but because of how much she’s missed this.  How much she’s missed _them_.

She looks around at all of them, smiling at each in turn.  Her gaze snags on Chloe's and lingers there, briefly getting stuck.  Chloe's beaming at her, her expression a mixture of exhilaration and something like pride, with possibly even a hint of unshed tears in her eyes.  The hand on top of Beca's in the pile gives her fingers a firm squeeze, and from that she knows who it belongs to.  She forces herself to look away before she forgets that the others are in the room.

She's now grinning at them so hard her mouth is open, and she knows she must look like a world class dork, but she couldn't care less.  She raises her eyebrows, as if confirming with them one last time that this is really going down.  They're smiling back at her, waiting, expectant.

"Let's make a record, bitches!"

On three, they sing.

 

* * *

 

(I can't post this in the box for notes because it's too long, so I'm just adding it to the text of the chapter!)

**Author's Note:** (apologize in advance about the length of this note!  It's the first one, and I’ve been adding to it for a year and a half, I promise they won't always be this long.)

First of all, helloo. [awkward wave]  I'm CJ.  Some of you probably already know me from tumblr, which I just joined a few months ago.  I guess you could say I’m relatively new to the Bechloe fandom, even though I thought they were adorable in the first movie and had loads more romantic chemistry than Beca and Jesse, who felt like siblings to me.  But it wasn't until I saw the sequel, after it came out on DVD, that I became a true convert.  It was a little like going to Jesus camp, but _slightly_ more gay.  In the days and weeks after watching the movie I realized I couldn't get them out of my head, and at the same time I also realized there was no point even thinking about it because there's not much chance of it ever being taken seriously on screen.  It felt like the kind of shipping that's destined to end in bitterness and disappointment, and I tried really hard not to let myself go down that path.

But you know how it works with this stuff, it's like falling in love and you can't control it.  Once a pairing's chemistry has latched its hooks into you, there's no escaping.  So that's when the idea dawned on me--if Beca and Chloe are never going to become a love story in the actual Pitch Perfect universe, then I can still make my own version of a third movie.  Because I need to see it somehow, and I also want to share it and let you awesome nerds see it as well.  Plus I love all the other Bellas and their whole dynamic, and I feel like PP fits pretty well with my writing style and sense of humor.  And since I'm in a less-than-great place in my life and this is something that makes me happy, I decided to go for it.  So, basically, that's what this fic is.  It's an alternate version of Pitch Perfect 3, the Bechloe version.  

And before I go any further, I feel like I should mention the fact that this chapter was really more of an introduction than a normal chapter, which is why it's essentially just one looooong scene that goes on forever.  I apologize for the insane length, but I needed to get a lot of the plot elements introduced and catch you up with the characters, and I decided to try to do it mostly through dialogue rather than exposition, because I prefer writing dialogue.  Also, I wanted to open the story like the movies begin, with John and Gail and a performance, which is why we join the Bechloe friends-with-benefits arrangement 'already in progress.'  

BUT, I want to clarify that the next few chapters will consist of a long extended flashback to Beca and Chloe's time together in L.A., which will show the specifics of how everything started, including but not limited to Beca's first year alone in the city, Chloe showing up and moving in with her, the deepening of their friendship and all their wacky roomie hijinks, the incremental stages of how they started messing around, the Beca/Jesse breakup, and much much more.  I never planned for it to be so long, but it turns out their chemistry makes it so easy to write them alone together, just the two of them, that I never run out of material or even feel the need to introduce another character into the mix.  The result is that the flashback section just kept growing and growing, it's pretty much a Bechloe novel at this point.  I should probably snip it out and make it a separate prequel, but the events are too important to what happens later, I need it to be part of this story.  So, if you hate missing the beginnings of things, don't worry, you'll still get to see all the details!  Once that section is done, the action will pick up in the present with the other Bellas arriving in L.A. to record the album.

A note about the plot:  I chose this aca-pop stars concept because I wanted something that focused on the core group we already know and love, something that allows them to come back together as a unit post-college.  And I thought there'd be a lot of great material to mine with watching them go from college acapella nerds to bona fide celebrities, and seeing how that affects their bonds with each other and how they handle the pressure.  I've always wanted to explore fandom and shipper obsession, not just from our perspective but from the _celebrity's_ perspective.  What does it feel like to be in that spotlight and have us obsessing over their love lives?  I don’t think this story would necessarily make a good movie, because in a movie it would just be two hours of glitz and cameos, but in a fic I have _allll_ the space in the world to give the Bellas plenty of interaction with each other and to focus on detailed character dynamics, as well as the Bechloe relationship.  I'm definitely going to have a lot of meta fun with the whole Hollywood bizarro world and the crazy fandom and shipper element (re: us), and I hope to explore some serious issues regarding the industry’s sexism, racism, and homophobia, but the story will always be grounded in the characters and their relationships.

A note about the focus and main characters:  This is a Bellas ensemble friendship fic, but it's mostly a love story--a big old cheesy, epic love story, because I don't do that shit halfway.  But there will be plenty of both elements, I'm going to try to keep a balance between the two, maybe something like 70% Bechloe, 30% ensemble and other friendships?  The primary relationships to get focus will be:  Beca/Chloe friendship/romantic relationship, Beca/Amy friendship, Chloe/Aubrey friendship/?, Beca/Aubrey frenemyship ( _lots_ of fun tension coming up between those two, because let's just say Aubrey is not at first a Bhloe shipper).  There are also significant storylines involving Cynthia-Rose/Stacie, Stacie/Chloe, Stacie/Beca, Cynthia-Rose/Beca, Flo/Beca, Emily/Beca, Chloe/Emily… wow, I didn’t realize until I started listing these how many dynamics there are.   And then there’s Raveena, my Barden Bella original character (Emily’s co-captain) who will make some appearances later on, and who will eventually be Cynthia-Rose’s new love interest.  Lilly, Jessica and Ashley will mostly be used in comedic supporting roles, as they are in the movies, although in a much more expanded form.  And the reason I gave Flo a new shtick is because I don't feel like spending an entire story making jokes about her Guatemalan past, I'd prefer to make fun of creepy conservatives. (Post-election update: given the current sad state of things, Flo’s “overstayed her student visa” story arc will now not be _entirely_ comedic, but I promise I won’t make it too soapboxy.  And rest assured she will get a very satisfying ending.)  Last but not least, there will be tons of ensemble group stuff, because I love writing them all together like that, even though it does make the scenes go on forever when I have to give each of them lines.

A note about perspective and music: the story will alternate between Beca POV and objective "camera eye" for scenes in which she's not involved.  I'll be the first to admit this is an awkward fit and it makes my writing a little muddled, but I need to use both styles to do what I want to do.  In some parts it'll feel like a standard fic, with novel-like prose showing Beca’s inner thoughts, but in other sections I'll try to make it feel more like watching a movie than reading a novel.  There will be tons of music used, lots of performances (John and Gail will be back) and I may experiment with writing some sections in quick-cut montage style, where I'll specify which song is playing over the scenes.  There will even be a riff-off.  Yeah, that'll be a nightmare to write, I'm sure I'll regret it.  But the music is essential to the story and I couldn't write it without it, so I hope you'll visit the soundtrack and the ship/character playlists on my tumblr (link is in my profile), I've got a page with all the audio included, I spent way too much time setting it up with the pics and everything; in addition to the soundtrack there's a Bechloe playlist, a Bellas playlist, and one for each character (well, Jessica and Ashley have to share theirs--they’re used to it!)  Music is enormously important to these characters, Beca and Chloe in particular, and it's enormously important to me as well.  In a weird way, doing the playlists for the fic has been just as crucial for me as writing the text, it's all part of figuring out these characters and their stories and bringing this world to life.  There are also snippets and short passages from upcoming chapters included with many of the songs, nothing too spoilery, but sort of like scenes that might be sampled in a movie trailer.

A note about the rating:  So, I'm an adult, and I'm writing this with other adults in mind, although I realize the movies have a huge audience of younger girls as well.  I'm not going to do anything too crazy, but there will be adult material--lots of off-color jokes and references, quite a bit of drinking, some minor drug use (if you're a fan of awkward!Beca, perhaps you might enjoy stoned!awkward!Beca), and of course, sex.  There's not going to be super explicit porn, but when important to the story and character arcs there will be fairly detailed scenes.  That includes all three of Beca and Chloe's "first times" in the flashback.  Yes, there are three first times.  It'll make sense later.  The role of sex is also pretty important in the story as a whole, as Beca tries to figure out and come to terms with why being with Chloe is so, so different from the way things were with Jesse, and what that means for her.  So just a heads-up that there will be more mature material than might have been obvious from this first chapter.

A note about the tone of this fic:  I'm classifying this story as a comedy, and overall that's the genre it will most solidly fit into, although the whole thing will not be as purely comedic as this chapter.  This was meant to be kind of a zany introduction in keeping with the tone of the movies, but there will be plenty of romance and fluff, as well as some angst down the road, a few scary bits, etc.  And also a touch of serious/sad stuff, much of it relating to Chloe's issues and family background, because after seeing her say with tears in her eyes that the Bellas had been her family for seven years, and taking into account her clinginess and tendency to invade personal space, her entire backstory clicked in my mind.  I don't believe someone stays in college for three extra years without some emotional baggage to deal with, so fleshing her out as a character and letting Beca really get to know her as she falls in love with her has so far been one of my favorite things about working on this story.  Chloe is such a complex precious bundle of confidence and vulnerability and sexiness and loneliness and affection and drama queening and weirdness.  And I may be a little in love with her myself at this point, sigh.  Don't get me wrong, I love Beca too, but Beca is too much like me for me to get starry-eyed over.  

And whereas in the first two PP movies, Beca's major emotional hurdle was learning to open herself up and let her friends be there for her, I think her next stage in growing up is to learn how to really be there for someone else.  Although she still has plenty of her own lingering issues and fears to deal with as well, I won't ignore those.  And lest anyone think it’s going to be another gay panic story, Beca’s fears about being in a relationship with Chloe are for the most part not about sexuality, they’re rooted in issues which are very specific to her character and her past, and they stem from the fact that Chloe is her best friend, not the fact that she’s female.

As far as plotting, my structure is tight enough so that it’s outlined and already plotted out at all the major points (I even have a good portion of the final chapter and epilogue already written) but it’s also loose enough to allow for me to add stuff around the edges--early on I had to decide whether to keep the story tight and concise, like a movie, and force myself to edit everything out that doesn’t strictly need to be there, OR to just throw in everything I wanted and let it be what it wanted to be.  I think you can probably see I chose the second option, both because it’s just my nature to write that way, creating a patchwork quilt effect by piling on the details, and also because why not?  I don’t have any space or time restrictions here, and I’m not even wasting paper.  The movies are so short, we never get to spend enough time with these characters, and I’m in no hurry to leave them.   I’d also love to make the story somewhat fandom-interactive, so if there’s anything you particularly want to see, like specific Hollywood or fan/shipper tropes, certain Bella interactions, Bechloe scenes, whatever, don’t be afraid to ask.  I might not be able to do it, but I’ll try my best!

By this point you're probably thinking that this is a ridiculous amount of information about a story that I have no idea if anyone will read, and that I'm probably crazy.  And you're probably right.  It's just that I've become so invested in this world already, and it's been sort of a lonely process.  I've actually been working on the story for a year and a half now, since October 2015, but have only just now managed to get everything ready to launch, because the playlists took longer than I thought they would.   I don't know how often I'll be able to update, but I know that the more invested readers are in it, the more motivation I have for writing and the faster I work.  It's going to be pretty damn long, though, I know that already.  Like Harry Potter novel long.  Possibly Harry Potter series long.  You will have probably already noticed that brevity is not my strong point.  

And who knows, maybe Beca and Chloe will actually end up together in the third movie and this will all be redundant.  But I doubt it.  I'd love to believe that's a real possibility in 2017, but I'm too much of a realist to think the studio would ever let them go that direction with such a huge money-maker, even if Kay Cannon and Elizabeth Banks wanted to.  We've come a long way, but probably not far enough yet.  Someday I hope to help change that at a professional level, but for now, I'm doing this, for you guys.  I believe these love stories need to exist, even if they still mostly only exist on the internet and not on our movie and TV screens.  (And since it's been a tough year in lesbian fandom, let me just say here for the record: I promise you nobody will die in this story!)

So if you would like to see it continue, please review, or stop by Tumblr to say hi, or something... just let me know I'm not doing this for nothing and that I haven't wasted a year on a project that no one really cares about reading.  I don't really know how big the fic-reading portion of this fandom is, there may be only a handful of people who ever see this story, but if that handful will review and comment, it'll still be worth it.  Thanks so much to anyone who is STILL reading at this point, because you've probably endangered your eyesight, and I take full responsibility.

Hope to hear from you!  -CJ


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey guys. First of all let me say I’m so sorry this took so long, I never intended for there to be such a long gap between the first and second chapters. Real life is being a bitch this summer. Also, this is not quite the chapter I’d planned to post. It *is* the beginning of the Los Angeles flashback, but I’d originally intended to end the first part with Chloe showing up and moving in with Beca. The problem is, I underestimated how much I would need to write to set up the earlier part of the story, and it was getting too long already. So this chapter doesn’t go nearly as far in time as I’d planned, which means there will end up being a lot more flashback chapters.
> 
> And while it may seem like I’m spending a lot of time setting things up and introducing new characters, I promise everything is for a reason. Beca’s relationship with her dad (and with her new pet) will be elements throughout the story. And her co-workers at the studio will also be dropping in and out of the entire fic and will have their own roles to play, because remember, this is the same label under which the Bellas will record their album. This is a big, sprawling story, with a lot of characters and a lot of different relationships and plots to juggle, but I do have it all mapped out, I swear.
> 
> And because I am a freak with a too-vivid imagination, I cast all my original character roles with specific actors, since it makes it easier to see and hear them in my head. Feel free to picture whoever you like, but if you want to know who *I’m* imagining in the roles, here’s a cast list.
> 
> Carmelina (Beca's neighbor) - Franca Valeri  
> Felicia - Gabrielle Union  
> George Driscoll - Jon Hamm (in a combo of his Don Draper and wacky comedy personas)  
> Sven - Martin Wallström  
> Roger - Paul Rudd  
> Miguel ("Miggy") - Robin de Jesús 
> 
> I put the translations for Carmelina’s Italian below the story, since if it was a movie I think it’d be in subtitles - it’s only Beca who doesn’t understand it, not us. (And thank you so much to my dearly loved you-know-who for translating!) 
> 
> And thank you so, so much as well to everyone who reviewed the first chapter, you have no idea how much it means to me, especially right now. As always, any questions, suggestions, requests, whatever, let me know. And sorry this chapter ends a little abruptly, but I think after the whole flashback is posted, you’ll be able to see the shape of it.

**Chapter 2**

_ Fall 2015 _

None of it is the way she imagined it.

For so many years, Beca’s had this vision in her mind of what it would be like to live in Los Angeles, to work in the music industry.  To be at the center of it all, in the city that most of the top artists call home, the city where the biggest hits get crafted, day after day.  To have a place, an  _ important  _ place, in that world.  The vision has been refined over time, as she’s learned more about the industry and narrowed down her own specific goals, from a vague outline in high school to a more specific plan by her senior year at Barden.  But essentially, it’s the same vision that’s driven her forward, all these years.  She could see in her mind just what her life would be like in this musically hallowed spot.

The problem is, it turns out she was wrong.  Wrong about almost everything.

To start with, she’d always imagined that she’d fly in.  She’d even had this vague, slightly fuzzy image of herself climbing down the steps of the plane onto a hot, sun-drenched tarmac, pulling off her sunglasses to feel for the first time that dry California light on her face.  Which was probably stupid, she later realizes, because do airports even work that way anymore?  Had she expected to arrive in 1967?

In any case, the specifics of the plane fantasy are irrelevant, because she doesn’t take a plane at all.  And even the part that involved her arriving solo turns out to be a bust.  Her dad, keeping his long-ago word to help her with moving as long as she fulfilled his emotionally manipulative requirements, has offered to drive her out and give her a hand with setting up her place.  She’s not exactly thrilled about the prospect, but she knows she needs help, and everyone else is busy.  So, despite her misgivings, she accepts his offer.

He arrives at the end of August to pick her up at her mom’s house in New Orleans, where she’s been spending the last few weeks of her summer after graduation.  Greeting him at the front door with a packed box in her arms, she notices his gaze nervously scanning the inside hallway.  “Don’t worry, she’s not here,” Beca tells him shortly.  There’s no way she’s dealing with  _ that  _ drama today.  

He takes the box from her, and she picks up another from the floor and follows him out into the sultry morning heat.  It’s only as she gets closer to the street that she looks up and notices the giant U-Haul rental truck parked there.  “Oh my God,  _ Dad _ .  I don’t even have that much stuff!  I thought you were just gonna get one of those little trailer things.”

“Well, actually…” he sounds a bit sheepish as pulls open the back doors of the vehicle, revealing that it’s already packed half full of boxes and furniture.  

Beca shakes her head, confused, and then looks at him for clarification.  “Is this yours?”

He puts the box inside as he answers.  “That’s right.”  He  turns back to her and lifts his hands in a hapless shrug.  “Turns out, your old dad is officially a bachelor.  For the third time.”

“What?”  Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.  “Sheila kicked you out?”

He takes the second box from her as he squints, considering his answer.  “It was mutual.  Mostly.”

“Wow.”  Beca muses on this.  “Guess it’s a good thing I never got attached to her, huh?”

He sighs, accepting this irony as his due.  “What can I say, Beca.  Maybe I’m just not meant to be a married man.”

A sudden thought dawns on her.  “Wait, you weren’t planning to…?” she gestures toward the inside of the truck, but finds she can’t even finish the terrible sentence.

“What, you don’t think your old man would make a good roommate?” he teases her.  “Come on, it’d give us a chance to catch up on all that quality time we missed out on.”

She just stares at him in horror.

He smiles.  “Don’t worry.  I’m teaching a semester at Berkeley.  I’m just gonna drop you off on my way upstate.”

“Oh thank God,” she gasps in relief.

Once they’re on the road, the trip seems endless.  Despite improvements in recent years, there’s something about being around her dad for extended periods that never fails to turn her back into a surly teenager.  She has to fight the instinct to answer all his questions with melodramatic sighs and passive-aggressive eye rolls.  He makes it worse by doing classic annoying dad stuff for the entire two thousand miles.  For instance, he insists she use the bathroom at every single gas station they stop at, even when she says she doesn’t have to go.  

“Tiny people have tiny bladders, Beca,” he reminds her.  “Remember what happened the last time you said you didn’t have to go?  You peed on Grandma.”

“I was four!  And, Grandma’s not even here, so,” she shrugs, as if this settles it.

“True, but this is a rental, and guess who’s gonna be responsible for any accidents?”  He points back at himself, in case she doesn’t get the idea.

“ _ Oh my God _ ,” she mutters, getting out of the truck in a huff.  When she comes back a few minutes later she climbs in and slams the door.  “Are you happy now?”

“Thank you,” he smiles at her.  “Don’t you feel better?”

She sulks and and faces forward, ignoring him.  (In fact, she does feel better.  But he doesn’t need to know that.)

One of the conditions for getting his help with this move had been a no-headphones policy, which he’d made her agree to in advance.  This means that she can’t even escape into her music, but is forced to sit there and engage with him for the entire ride.  Not that there isn’t  _ any  _ music - there’s plenty of it.  She’s just not in charge of it.  And she has to listen to him singing along to every single song.

“Come on, Beca!” he urges her over the too-loud volume of a Doobie Brothers hit from the seventies, drumming on the steering wheel.  “You used to love this when you were a kid, you sang with me all the time!  You thought I was a cool dad!”

“You were never a cool dad,” she tells him with a grudging smile.  “I just didn’t know any better.”

He plays a lot of classic Southern rock and folk rock; Creedence Clearwater, the Allman Brothers, some Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell.  She draws the line at John Denver.  “I will literally jump out of the truck,” she warns him.

She’d wanted to push through the miles as fast as possible, but of course her dad has other plans.  He wants to go at a more leisurely pace, no more than ten hours at a stretch, which means stopping two nights at motels.  Since he’s the one driving, she doesn’t get much input into this plan.  It turns out, however, that ten hours of being in a vehicle with him is about as much as she can handle, so the motel idea was probably a wise one.  They stay the first night in Austin, Texas, then the second in Las Cruces, New Mexico.  Both times, her dad tries in vain to convince her to join him in the pool while she pretends she doesn’t know him.

They leave Las Cruces early in the morning, because Beca is eager for this road trip to be over, and for her new life to get started.  She’d hoped to arrive in the afternoon, but even after hearing horror stories for years, she finds she still isn’t prepared for the special circle of hell that is L.A. traffic.  It’s like nothing she’s ever seen before.  Her dad either, it seems, because all his casual goofiness dies away as he hunches over the wheel and focuses on not getting them killed.  Then they get stuck in a traffic jam for an hour and also manage to get lost a few times before they even make it into the city.  Beca’s rented duplex is in El Segundo, on the far western edge of Los Angeles, which means they have to navigate through most of the county before they even reach the right neighborhood.  There’s barely a chance for her to take in her surroundings, to appreciate the iconic aspect of it all, in between stressing about the traffic and arguing with her dad and trying not to tell the GPS lady to go fuck herself.

It’s already early evening when they finally, after numerous wrong turns, locate the right street and pull up in front of the correct address.  They get out of the truck and stand on the sidewalk, staring at it.  After a silence, Beca’s dad is the first to speak.

“It’s, hmm.”  He crosses his arms.  “It’s two different colors.”

“It’s a duplex,” Beca says, as if this explains it.  She already feels defensive about the house.  Although it’s true, one half of it is blue, the other is a kind of dark pink, maybe meant to resemble Mediterranean tile, but more evocative of… well, the first word that pops into her mind is  _ vagina _ .  Which is really unfortunate, because now that she’s thought it, she knows she’ll never be able to unthink it.

“It’s big, at least,” her dad adds, trying to be encouraging.

“Yeah.  Well, I mean, I only have half of it.”

“Which half?”

“Um.”  She glances at her phone, double-checking the address.  “The pink one, I think?”

He winces a little.  “Well.  At least you get the porch balcony.  What do you say we check out the inside?”

On the front porch, Beca feels around on the top of a window ledge where the key is supposed to be hidden for her, relieved to find that it’s actually there.  But when she tries it in the door, it won’t turn.  The lock seems to be stuck.  She jiggles the key, hoping she won’t have to ask her dad for help.

“How did you get this place again?” he asks, looking around.

“Just, like, through some guy that my friend Lilly knows?”  She doesn’t elaborate.  Actually, she doesn’t know much more than that herself.  So far, she’s only corresponded with the landlord through a series of cryptic emails.  There’s something a little sketchy about the whole arrangement, but it was cheap, and immediately available, so she hadn’t asked too many questions.

“Lilly.”  He thinks for a second.  “Is she the weird one?”

“They’re all weird, Dad,” Beca says with a distracted air.  Finally, she manages to turn the key, and they step inside.

The interior is dark, even though there’s still plenty of daylight left outside.  All the windows seem to be covered with thick drapes or blinds.  They both stand just inside the doorway, waiting for their eyes to adjust.  Beca watches as her dad steps over to the nearest window and gives a hard tug on the cord.  Instead of lifting up, the entire set of cheap mini-blinds pops from the bracket above the window, and, with a crash as it takes out some objects on a table below it, falls to the floor.  He gives her a wry look of apology as he puts his hands in his pockets, but she doesn’t comment.  

The window is dirty, but in the light that now comes filtering through the haze of dust motes stirred up by the collapse of the blinds, they can examine the room.  It seems spacious enough, at least for such an old house.  An arched doorway leads into a kitchen on one side, and another in the back reveals a curving flight of stairs, which Beca knows go up to the one bedroom and its second-floor porch balcony.  Other than the bathroom and a small basement room that she suspects she probably won’t use, this is pretty much it.

“It’s a nice size,” her dad remarks.  “But…” he trails off, and she knows what he means.  The place is in an odd state.  There are patches of the walls that are painted a different color than the rest.  Some of the furniture is askew or shoved into random places, a few pieces piled on top of each other.  In the center of the living room, a section of the (admittedly horrible) carpeting is inexplicably missing.  A large rectangle of it has been removed as if by scissors, revealing a scuffed and probably very old hardwood floor underneath.

“Oh, yeah,” she says casually, “the landlord mentioned that the last tenants had to leave in a hurry, so they left some stuff behind.  Looks like they were remodeling?”

Her dad nods, squinting as he surveys the room.  “Covering up a murder, maybe?”

She sighs.  “It’s not that bad.  I’m gonna fix it up, it’ll be great.”  

Almost before she’s finished speaking, an odd, low thrumming sound begins filling the room, gradually getting louder until it’s an actual roar over their heads.  There’s a slight rattling of objects and a feeling of vibration coming up through the floor, which slowly dies away as the roar recedes.  Beca’s dad leans toward the window to stare up at the sky in bewilderment.

“Did I mention the airport is just a few blocks away?” Beca asks with a trace of irony.   Before he can say anything negative, she insists, “It’s fine, I’m sure I’ll get used to it.  Look, obviously, the place isn’t perfect, that’s why it’s so cheap.  Otherwise I’d never be able to afford something like this on my own.”

“Speaking of that,” he says, turning to her.  “Are you sure you don’t want a roommate?”  Off her look, he adds, “Not  _ me _ .  I mean someone your own age.”

“I am  _ definitely  _ sure I don’t want a roommate,” she says firmly.  “There’s only one bedroom, anyway.”

He doesn’t look thrilled with her answer, but seems to know better than to press the issue.  “Well,” he says with an air of resolve.  “Let’s get your stuff inside.  I’m sure you’re anxious for me to be on my merry way.”

She doesn’t contradict this.

But even after all her boxes and luggage and what little furniture she’s brought are carried in, and he’s helped her set up the things she doesn’t mind admitting she needs help with, he still seems reluctant to leave.  He brings in a box of books,  _ his  _ box, not Beca’s, and begins arranging them on the built-in shelves in the living room.

“Dad, what are you doing?  I’m never gonna read those.”

“A home isn’t a home without books, Beca.  You never know, you might have a visitor who likes to read.  I’m sure Chloe will appreciate these.”

“You know,” Beca can’t help remarking.  “Sometimes I really get the feeling you’d prefer her for a daughter instead of me.”

“Oh, come on,” he chides her with a grin, insisting, “not  _ instead _ .  Maybe…  _ in addition _ to.”

She shakes her head, but makes a mental note to tell Chloe later, knowing it’ll make her happy.  Over the past few years, Chloe has had what at times could probably be described as a closer relationship to Dr. Mitchell than Beca herself has.  He’d been her faculty adviser in the English department, and she’d taken almost all of his classes.  In fact, he’d been the one to faithfully fail her in Russian Literature for three semesters in a row, not because she wasn’t a good student, but because he’d seemed to understand why she hadn’t wanted to leave.  Sometimes when Beca had gone to his office on campus to get money from him, she’d find Chloe there, the two of them hanging out and laughing, or passionately but good-naturedly arguing about fictional characters, and she’d feel a little bit as though she was interrupting  _ their  _ family time.  

But thinking about Barden, and about Chloe, causes a sudden pang of homesickness, and she is absolutely not going down that road right now.  This is supposed to be a day of excitement and new beginnings, a day she’s looked forward to for years, and she doesn’t want to spend any of it thinking about the past.  Now, if only she could get her dad to leave.

He’s obviously not picking up on her mood.  After finishing with the books, he starts wandering around, examining the details of the house more closely, finding things to delay him.  He makes sure all her appliances work, even the garbage disposal.   He resets the thermostat inside her refrigerator.  He checks the locks on the back door, whistling as if he’s enjoying himself.  Then he checks all the electrical outlets and examines the wiring, managing to look as if he actually knows what he’s doing, although Beca is certain he does not.   She follows him around with crossed arms, trying to convey her impatience.  When she finds him tightening the toilet seat, she can’t hold back.  

“Is that really necessary?”

“Look how loose this is, Beca,” he says, jiggling it.  “You sit down on it the wrong way, it could pop off, and you’d fall right in there.”

“Into  _ the toilet _ ?”

When he starts checking the locks on every single window in the house, she’s afraid she’s going to snap.  She’s trying so, so hard not to say anything loaded, something about how it’s a little late for all this.  About how she’s an adult now, and she could have really used this kind of concern from him when she was fourteen and wondering where her dad went.  But they’ve made so much progress in recent years, and she doesn’t want to set it back.  Besides, she  _ has  _ technically forgiven him for that.  For the most part.  Basically.  For all practical purposes, anyway.

He seems to find what he’s looking for with the very last window he checks, the one from which the mini-blinds had earlier launched themselves.  “Aha!” he crows.  “Look at that.  That lock is completely busted.  Anybody could just open that window and climb right in here.”

She clenches her teeth and waits a second before she replies.  “Okay, well, I’ll get it fixed.”

“Tonight?”  He shakes his head.  “I think I’d better nail it down before I leave, just in case.”

“Oh my God, you do not need to nail it down.  No one is going to break in!  This is a nice neighborhood.”

“Which is exactly why someone would want to break in.”

“Dad.”  She waits until he finally stops fiddling with the window and looks at her.  “I don’t need anything else,” she tells him firmly.  “Really.  I mean, thank you, for driving me out here.  But I’m good.  I’m gonna be fine here.”

With obvious misgivings, he leaves the window and comes to stand in front of her.  “You’re sure the public transportation is reliable?”

“Yeah, the metro stop is literally, like, right down the street.  I told you, I’ve already got the schedules, and everything.”

“What about money?”

“I’m fine.  I’ve got enough to last until my first paycheck.”

She can tell he still wants to say something else, and she’s getting impatient.  “What?” she demands.

He hesitates, then finally comes out with it.  “Do you know  _ anybody  _ here?  In this entire city?”

“Not yet.  But, I mean, I  _ will _ .  Obviously.  I start work on Monday.”

He considers his words carefully.  “I know you don’t want to hear this, Beca, but I just worry that being out here all by yourself, you’re gonna fall back into old habits.  Living like a hermit.  Avoiding people, using music like a drug to shut the world out.” 

“Why would you think that?”  She’s irritated, but also genuinely surprised.  

“Because I know you.  You’re more like me than you realize, kiddo.  And I used to be the same way, only with books.  I’m just afraid that if you don’t have someone constantly dragging you out of that shell and  _ keeping  _ you out of it, you’re gonna get too comfortable in there, and forget how to come out.”

She looks at him like he’s crazy.  “That is… ridiculous.  I haven’t been like that in years.”

“Because you had friends,” he reminds her.

“Yeah, and I still do.  They haven’t dropped off the face of the earth, they’re just in other cities.  And I’m gonna make new friends here!”  She’s on the verge of losing her cool.  “Yes, I was going through a phase for a while, but I’m not some antisocial loner, I’m a normal person.  And I am  _ definitely  _ not like you!”

“Okay, okay, Beca,” he says, holding his hand up as if to calm her down, which she hates.  “I don’t want to fight with you.  You’re probably right, I’m just being overprotective.  I can’t help it, I’m your dad, I don’t like the thought of you here alone.  And I’m gonna miss having you so nearby, right on campus.”

“Well, this is where I have to be,” she says stubbornly.  “College can’t last forever.”

Trying to lighten the mood, he suggests jokingly, “It could if you picked up another degree or two.”

She rolls her eyes but gives him a reluctant half-smile.

He sighs heavily, finally seeming to give in to the inevitable.  “All right, sweetheart, I guess it’s time for me to hit the road.  Just promise you’ll let me know if you need anything?  I mean it,” he insists.  “San Francisco’s only a few hours away.”

A thought occurs to her.  “Is that why you’re teaching there?”

“No,” he protests, but then admits, “It’s a nice bonus, though.  But it’s only until December.  I’ll be back in Atlanta next semester.”  He glances at the front door, then holds out his arms.  “I can at least get a hug, right?”

Suppressing a sigh, she moves toward him.  She supposes a hug is not too high a price to pay to get him out the door.

But he doesn’t seem to want to let go once he’s got her, possibly trying to make up for lost time.  With her face smashed against his chest, the mixture of the scent of his shirt and his cologne suddenly hits her like a tidal wave of nostalgia, straight out of the best part of her childhood, and she feels a sudden, horrifying lump in her throat.  This is exactly why she’s tried to avoid hugging him much in the past few years.  She pulls backwards, detaching herself a bit roughly, and avoids eye contact for a few seconds, hoping he won’t notice anything unusual.  He looks sad, maybe a little guilty, even, but he doesn’t say anything.

She walks him out, waiting until she sees him climb into the U-Haul.  He gives her a wave, and she goes back in and shuts the door.  

But after a few minutes, she hasn’t heard the motor start, and when she checks, he’s still parked there on the street.  She goes out onto the porch.  When he sees her, she raises her hands in a questioning gesture, and he sticks his head out the window, “Just, uh, just checking my messages.  Writing some emails.  I’m gonna go.  I’m going!”  He waves her back in again, and she waits a few minutes.  Still not hearing him pull away, she suddenly realizes how late it is, and how long the drive to Berkeley is going to be.  She’s on the verge of giving in and asking him to stay just the one night, which she knows is what he wants, because there  _ are  _ probably a few things she’s forgotten that she might still need some help setting up, and it’s true she doesn’t know anybody here.  

But when she opens the door again, she finds that the street in front of the house is empty.  This time he’s really gone.

Weirdly, instead of relief, she feels a bit bereft, and suddenly very, very alone.  Out of nowhere she has an unexpected flashback to a night when she was eight or nine, when her dad had dropped her off at a sleepover that she hadn’t even wanted to attend, but which he’d argued would be good for her, telling her she’d love it if she just gave it a chance.  She’d watched his car drive away with the same hollow feeling she’s experiencing now.  Then, without even knocking on the door, she’d reached into her Powerpuff Girls backpack for her Nokia phone (only for emergencies) and called her mom to come and get her.  And then she’d listened to them fight about it all night.

Of course, there was also the  _ other  _ time he left.  But that’s not like this.  Not at all.  And she’s definitely not dredging up those memories right now.

Slowly, she closes the door and leans back against it, thoughtful.  Glancing around the empty and now ominously silent living room, she looks for something to distract her.  Her eye falls on the window with the broken lock, and she regards it warily.  As if to prove his point, there’s now the faint sound of a police siren in the distance.   _ Damn him. _

Ten minutes later finds her with a hammer and a handful of nails, hastily procured from the very creepy basement.  She can’t remember if she’s ever actually used a hammer before, but how hard can it be?  You just hit the nail, and try not to hit your finger, right?

She holds the first nail and gives it a tentative tap with the hammer.  It skids sideways and falls onto the floor, rolling under the radiator.  She takes a deep breath and picks up another one.  On her second attempt she uses a harder swing, and the tip of the nail goes into the wood frame of the window, about a third of the way.  She feels a sense of accomplishment that is probably way out of proportion to the actual deed, but whatever.

She’s happily banging away on her sixth nail, maybe more than the window truly needs to seal it shut, but now that she’s got the hang of this it’s kind of fun, when she becomes aware that the glow from the streetlight outside has dimmed.  She glances up.  “ _ Jesus _ ,” she jerks back, startled, because there’s someone standing on the porch, staring in at her.  Her panic subsides quickly when she sees it’s a woman - a very old woman, actually - in a nightgown and bathrobe.

Beca moves hastily to the front door and starts to step onto the porch, but then has to back up a few paces, because the woman is coming right in, not waiting for an invitation.  She’s probably in her eighties, Beca would guess, white but with an olive tone to her skin, and she brings with her a whiff of rose-scented hand cream.

“Oh… hi,” Beca tells her, suddenly remembering that she has a neighbor just on the other side of her wall.  “Sorry about the noise, I didn’t realize how late it was getting.”  

The woman doesn’t seem to be listening to her.  She’s gazing around the room, curious but with a slightly appalled air.

“I’m… Beca?” she tries again.  “I just moved in.  Today.  You probably already know that,” she adds, rambling, because the woman still isn’t looking at her.  In a louder voice, in case the lady is hard of hearing, she adds, “Um, do you live in the other half of the house?”

Still examining the room with mounting dismay, the woman mutters something.  “ Gesù Cristo, che macello. C'hanno ammazzato qualcuno qua dentro?"

It takes Beca a second to realize that it’s definitely not English she’s speaking.  “Wow, is that… is that Italian?  I actually took German for my foreign language requirement.  The, uh, music department recommended it.  Not that I’ve ever used it.  I don’t suppose you speak German?”

Finally, the woman turns her attention to Beca.  Her agitation doesn’t lessen as she looks her over.   "Sei da sola? Il tuo babbo se n'è andato?” she asks with a stricken expression.  “Dov'è la tua mamma?"

Beca thinks she recognizes the last word.  “My mom?”  Seeing the woman’s gaze again flickering around the room in a searching way, she guesses, “Oh, are you looking for other people?  No, it’s just me.  No one else lives here, it’s just gonna be me.  Alone.”

The word  _ alone  _ seems to register with the woman, who seems shocked.  She takes a step closer to Beca, suddenly grabbing her wrist, which she holds up and examines, as if measuring it.  She clucks and shakes her head, apparently not pleased with what she finds.  Then she puts her hands around Beca’s waist, as if hoping for better news there.

“ _ Oh _ ,” Beca gasps, startled.  “Okay.  This is weird.  But you’re old, so I’m trying to be cool about it,” she adds with a tense smile.

Finally the woman steps back, shaking her head again as she looks Beca over from head to toe.  Sighing, she mutters to herself,  “Questa mi muore di fame qua dentro.”

Not knowing how to respond, Beca makes a guess.  “Thank you?”

The woman turns to go, throwing her hands up as if she can’t be responsible for any of this.  But, on second thought, she turns back and firmly pries the hammer out of Beca’s grip, wagging a finger at her with an “Mm-mm.”  That part, at least, is understandable in any language.

Tucking the hammer under her arm, she shuffles out, yanking the door shut behind her.

“Okay, so, it was nice to meet you!” Beca calls after her, but not with a great deal of conviction.  She continues standing in the middle of the living room for a few seconds, bemused, pondering the encounter.  Glancing at the window, she realizes she’s done hammering.  

Now what?  Probably she should get some unpacking done.  The prospect doesn’t cheer her up, but she reluctantly pulls a box into the kitchen and starts making some attempt to put the place in order.

Over the next few hours, she finds herself already adjusting to the earthquake-like roar of planes taking off and landing nearly every ten minutes.  With headphones on, it’s hardly even noticeable.  In fact, if you really wanted to give it an optimistic spin, you could say it’s like free extra bass.  She’s trying to look on the bright side, even though it’s a skill she doesn’t have much practice at.

By the time she’s finished with the kitchen, it’s late, and it suddenly occurs to her that even though she’s been spending the past few hours unpacking utensils and cooking equipment, she has no actual food here.  Already too tired to venture out into unknown territory in the dark, she decides to order a pizza.  But before she can even locate a phone number for the nearest place, her front door is flung open, and the old woman from next door comes in again.  She’s carrying a plate with tinfoil over it.  Unceremoniously, she crosses into the kitchen and puts the plate down on the table in front of Beca.  Then she gives her another quick once-over and turns to leave, muttering something that sounds like an appeal to a higher power.  

Bewildered, Beca stares after her retreating figure, but by the time she realizes she should say thank you, it’s too late.  After the door shuts behind the woman, she cautiously peeks under the tinfoil.  She has absolutely no idea what this is, but it’s warm and it’s free, and she reasons that if an old Italian lady made it, it can’t be that bad.  But before she tries it, she crosses through the living room and locks the front door, just to prevent any uninvited return visits from her (possibly crazy) elderly neighbor tonight.  

She eats in the eerie silence of the apartment, because there’s no TV down here and her laptop is up in the bedroom.  Which is probably where she should be heading, because it’s nearly midnight and she’s exhausted, but even after she sets the empty plate in the sink, she delays a little.  It’s not that she’s afraid, it’s just that it’s been a long time since she’s gone to sleep in an empty house.  Weird, how she hadn’t even thought about that, about how different it would be.  So many nights, in the Bella house, she’d longed for a quiet place of her own away from all the nonstop noise and chaos and distraction of eight other girls.  She tries to force herself to appreciate it.  Isn’t this what she’d been looking forward to?  But she still doesn’t want to go upstairs.

As if to offer her a reason for stalling, her phone buzzes with a text from her dad letting her know he’d arrived in San Francisco with no trouble.  She feels a slight twinge of guilt when she checks the time and sees how long it took him to get there.  There’s also an earlier message from her mom, wanting to make sure she got settled in.  Beca sends a quick reply to say everything’s fine and that she’ll call tomorrow.  If it wasn’t already long past her mom’s bedtime, she’d probably be tempted to call right now.

That leaves two more unanswered texts, one from Jesse and one from Chloe.  The messages are similar, both checking to see if she’d arrived safe (granted, one with a lot more emojis than the other) and both asking her to get in touch as soon as she has a chance.

She should probably text Jesse.  Or better yet, call him.  But she hesitates, her thumb hovering indecisively over both names.  She still hasn’t made a decision when she’s suddenly startled by a call coming in.  She jumps a little, almost dropping the phone, then shakes her head when she sees the name, not terribly surprised.  Answering, she says with a smile, “How do you do that?”

“It’s weird, right?” Chloe agrees.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’d hacked into my phone camera.”

“Oh believe me, I looked into it, but it’s way beyond my technical skills,” she teases.

Beca laughs.  “Why are you even awake?  Isn’t it like three in the morning there?”

“It’s pretty late,” she hedges.  “But I wanted to check in.  And I knew you’d still be up.  So?” she urges Beca.  “I can’t believe you’re really there!  You’re a California girl!  Do you feel like you’re living in a Katy Perry video?”

“Strangely, no.  Maybe that’ll kick in tomorrow?”

“Probably.”  Beca can hear the smile in her voice.  “So, what’s your place like?  Send me some pics!”

“Oh, yeah...”  Beca glances around, trying and failing to find even one spot that wouldn’t look depressing or alarming in a picture.  “I will, I promise.  As soon as I get everything unpacked.  It’s kind of a mess right now.”  She changes the subject.  “How are things in Atlanta?  God, it feels so wrong not to be going back to campus.”  As she listens, she heads upstairs to the small bedroom, turning lamps off on her way.  The prospect of going to bed doesn’t seem so daunting now.

“Honestly?  It’s been insane here,” Chloe sighs dramatically.  “You’re not gonna believe what happened yesterday.  Stacie set me up on a blind date with an actual rocket scientist.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I know, it sounds impressive, right?  But it was an epic disaster, this guy was beyond clueless.  I mean, it’s just a date, it’s not rocket science!”  Chloe pauses.  “I’ve been saving that joke just for you, by the way.”

“Appreciated.”

“So, you want to hear all the details?”

Beca considers.  “Does it really matter what I say to that, dude?  You know you’re gonna tell me anyway.”  

“That’s true,” Chloe admits.

But before she can begin, Beca stops her.  “Hang on, just let me get into bed.”

“Oh, well, don’t get excited.  Nothing good happened.”

Beca says through a grin, “I meant because I’m  _ tired _ ?”

“Oh, right.  Okay, go ahead.”

She hurriedly changes into pajamas, then settles into the freshly made bed, glad now that her dad had insisted she put the sheets on before she did anything else.  She sets the phone to speaker mode and rests it on the mattress next to her pillow.  The vaguely lost and unmoored feeling that had been threatening to torpedo her mood ten minutes ago has been dispelled like fog.  Even though there’s no way she’ll admit it, she’s relieved that at least for her first night in this new, strange city, she’ll be able to drift off to the comforting cadences of a well-known voice.  Probably that voice should be her boyfriend’s, but it’s not her fault that Chloe called first.

She turns onto her side and gets comfortable.  “Okay, weirdo,” she tells her, taking a deep breath and trying to let her body relax into the unfamiliar mattress.  “Start at the beginning.”

* * *

In the morning she sends an apologetic text to Jesse, explaining that she fell asleep before she got a chance to reply, which is not exactly untrue.  She knows there’s no point trying to call him now, because in order to afford to live in New York he’s working not just one but two jobs, the second of which takes up his entire weekend.  So she tells him to call her whenever he has a chance.  This puts the responsibility on him and somewhat eases her conscience.

She spends most of the rest of the day attempting to make the place look habitable, taking stock of what’s been left behind, what she brought, and what she still needs to get.  It’s a bit dispiriting to see that after hours of effort, there’s not much improvement.  Apparently she’d underestimated how much work would be involved.  This is a lot more labor-intensive than decorating one half of a dorm room.  Not to mention much less fun, since there’s no roommate to impress with how cool she is.

It’s not until the late afternoon that she ventures into the back yard for the first time, and that’s when she finds the note from the landlord.  It’s taped hastily to the back door, the words scrawled as if the person writing them had been in a hurry.  It reads simply  _ please take care of mr. cheeto they left him hes a good boy _

She reads it a few times, trying to make sense of it.  “What?” she mutters to herself.  There’s an animal here?  She hasn’t seen one.  _  Oh God _ .  The thought hits her with a stab of dread.  What if she’s too late?  This note must have been here for days.  What if it’s already dead?

Alarmed, she begins looking around the small yard, but quickly realizes there’s nothing out here, there’s just no place for anything to be hiding.  She goes back inside, still searching, but more hesitant now, afraid of what she might find.  “Mr. Cheeto?” she calls.  Attempting a whistle, she adds, “Here, boy!”  No response.  She tries a different tactic.  “Kitty-kitty-kitty?”

She moves from the kitchen into the living room, calling, “Mr. Cheeto?  I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.  It was my dad’s fault.  Please don’t be dead,” she begs.

Over in a small alcove near the stairs to the bedroom, there’s a jumble of stuff that she hasn’t yet even looked at closely.  Now she examines it, wondering if a small animal might be hiding somewhere inside it.  She drags a ladder and some boxes out of the way, then pulls a sheet from a pile that reaches to her chest.  Underneath, she discovers what at first looks like a curio cabinet or entertainment center, but there’s no TV inside it.  Instead, there’s a huge aquarium.  But it’s not full of water.  It holds only some forking tree branches, greenery, rocks, a huge shallow pool on the bottom, and some kind of fancy light bulb hanging from the top.  Other than that, it’s empty.  

Beca stares at it without moving.  “Oh boy,” she says under her breath.  “This does not look good.”

She turns around slowly, even more alert now, because whatever has been living inside this thing is definitely not a dog or a cat.

“Mr. Cheeto?” she hesitantly tries again, now including in her darting gaze the higher areas  of the room, even the ceiling, because who the hell knows.  “Where are you?” she calls, adding with trepidation, “ _ What _ are you?”

She wanders into the bathroom, doing a quick check to confirm it’s empty.  She starts to leave but then turns back   Feeling a bit silly but determined to cover all the bases, she warily draws back the shower curtain to check the bathtub.  She’s not really expecting to find anything, which means that she gasps and jerks backwards a few steps, covering her mouth, when she sees orange scales and slitted reptile eyes staring back at her from the opposite rim of the tub. 

Determined not to freak out, she slowly lowers her hand from her mouth and after a few seconds steps closer, staring at… whatever this thing is.  It stares back at her from where it basks in a bright patch of sunlight, unmoving, looking vaguely offended, as if she’s actually walked in on it taking a shower.  It, or she supposes she should think of it as a  _ he _ , since it’s a Mr., is about three feet long, including the tail, with a crested ridge of fringe running down his back and up over his head.  Other than some black stripes on his tail, he’s a bright, almost neon orange, literally looking as if he’s been rolled in Cheeto dust.

After a few more seconds of this silent staring contest, Beca says, “So… you’re a lizard.   _ Of course. _  Of course you are.”  She studies him some more, still waiting for her heart rate to return to normal.  “I guess, at least you’re not a snake?”

Mr. Cheeto suddenly seems to grow bored with this conversation.  He rotates his gaze away from her.  Slowly, he walks along the rim of the bathtub, then slides down onto the floor.  Beca backs up against the sink, alarmed as he approaches, but he ignores her and continues past her to the door.  After a few seconds, intrigued, she follows, but stays a cautious distance behind.

The lizard slowly but with obvious intent crosses through the living room, then navigates a path over and upwards through the pile of stuff surrounding the aquarium.  He pulls himself up onto the lip of the tank, then over the edge, dropping down onto the uppermost forking branch, then methodically zigzagging his way to the bottom.  Without another glance at Beca, he disappears into a hollow log on the floor of the tank.

“Oh, okay, so you sort of just… come and go as you please.  Great,” she adds dryly, glancing around the house at all the different places he could potentially hide, should he be so inclined.  Another, more disturbing, thought now occurs to her.  “Oh God, what do you eat?  Please don’t tell me it’s maggots.”

After doing a bit of research and texting some pictures to a reptile expert at a local pet store, she learns, to her relief, that he does not eat maggots.  What she apparently has is an iguana, and he’s a strict vegetarian.  It seems that his bright orange color is probably only temporary, due to him coming into his breeding season, and that once he gives up on mating, he’ll return to a more subtle green shade.  Also, the thing he lives in is called a terrarium, and it has specific temperature and humidity requirements.  And if he’s going to be wandering around the house as he’s obviously accustomed to, she has to make sure there’s nothing small enough for him to eat lying around.  The pet store guy tells her all this in an enthusiastic tone, like he’s excited for her new adventure.

Frankly, it’s all a little more than she wants to deal with.  She’d had no immediate plans for a pet, and if she was going to get one, she probably wouldn’t choose a reptile.  Thinking the lizard would be better off with someone who has more time and experience to devote to taking care of him, she puts an ad on Craigslist in an attempt to find him a new home.  

Within half an hour, she’s already receiving responses, but it’s not quite what she’d hoped for.  The first caller is a boy who sounds about twelve.  He wants to know if she can bring him the lizard, because he’s grounded and his mom won’t let him out of his room.  The second caller is a guy who seems surprised when a woman answers the phone.  He’s not much interested in the specifics of Mr. Cheeto, but he does want to know if she’s horny.  She disconnects and wastes no time in blocking his number.   

She’s encouraged at first by the third caller, who sounds like a cultured older gentleman.  The conversation seems to be going well, but then he asks if she thinks the lizard is big enough to eat a small child.  

After asking him to repeat the question, Beca tells him slowly, “Um, probably not.  It’s, like, the size of a dachshund?” 

“But theoretically,” he presses her.  “If it was hungry enough, could it eat a small child?”

She takes a long pause.  “I’m gonna have to get back to you on that.”  She hangs up for the third time, turns her phone off, and then deletes the ad from Craigslist.  She decides it’s time to accept the fact that she now has an iguana.  

But this unexpected detour into the world of lizards and lizard-enthusiasts has now eaten up a huge chunk of her Sunday, and shot all her big first-weekend-in-L.A. plans to hell.  She’d wanted to spend the afternoon seeing some of the city, and more importantly, taking a trial run on the metro to the studio downtown where she’ll be working.  Normally this isn’t the kind of thing that would stress her out, but she’s never even technically met her new boss yet, and she’s paranoid about making a bad first impression.  He’s already taking a chance by hiring her without the benefit of an in-person interview, based only on the recommendation of her boss at Residual Heat, an old friend of his.  But now it’s too late, and she’ll just have to hope that everything goes smoothly in the morning.

She does at least have to buy some food, so a shorter trip is unavoidable.  There’s a small grocery only a few blocks away, but she ventures a bit farther in search of a Whole Foods, because she has a vague sense that shopping there will make her feel like a real Californian.  Once inside, however, she walks down the aisles in a stunned daze, staring at the prices and wondering if maybe numbers are used differently here.  Most items are at least double the price she’d pay in Atlanta, some things are three or four times higher.  She quickly realizes that she’s not going to be eating much before her first paycheck.  Depending on how much is left after rent and utilities, maybe not after it either.  She should have taken the money her dad offered, but she’s too stubborn to call and ask for it now.

As a newly responsible pet owner, though, she does pick out an assortment of green vegetables for Mr. Cheeto, some with names she’s never heard of.  The unnaturally-attractive and toned cashier who rings up her items looks knowingly at all the produce.  “Fiber cleanse?” 

“Sure,” Beca tells her, because that’s probably less weird than the truth.

* * *

Monday morning, she’s up almost an hour before her alarm goes off - a truly rare occurrence, because usually it’s more like an hour  _ after  _ her alarm goes off.  She tells herself it’s excitement, not nerves.  There’s nothing to be nervous about.  It’s not like this is the day she’s looked forward to since she was eleven years old and first realized what she wanted to do with her life.  It’s not like the impression she makes today could potentially influence her career, for better or worse, for years to come.  Not at all.  This is no big deal.   _ No pressure _ , her inner voice of irony reminds her as she gags slightly on her toothbrush and almost throws up into the sink.

She’s had her outfit picked out for months, not that she would ever admit this to anyone.  She’d wanted it to seem cool, but not too cool.  Not, like,  _ desperately  _ cool.  Just enough to give the impression that this comes naturally to her, that she doesn’t even have to make an effort.  Even though she had, of course, made a huge effort, spending a ridiculous amount of time perfecting every last detail.  It’s only after she’s showered and dressed, standing in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, that a mortifying thought occurs to her.  What if what’s cool in Atlanta isn’t cool in L.A.?  

Panicked, she yanks everything off and starts again from scratch, trying to remember what she’d seen people wearing during her brief trip to Whole Foods yesterday.  But the second outfit is no good, it looks like she’s trying too hard, exactly what she’d wanted to avoid.  She pulls it all off and makes another attempt, casting a worried glance at the clock.  

For the third ensemble, she goes for something more casual.  But maybe it’s too casual?  She doesn’t want to look like she’s not professional, or like she doesn’t appreciate the job.  On to the next one, then.  

She makes an appalled face at herself in the mirror as she appraises the fourth outfit, which is all kinds of wrong; she looks like a white trash rapper.  (But weirdly, kind of hot?  Quickly, she takes a pic so she can remember the details, in case she ever finds herself  _ wanting  _ to look like a white trash rapper.)  

The fifth outfit makes her look pregnant.  “No, no no no  _ no _ ,” she mutters to herself, shuddering in horror as she strips it off and throws it aside.

And now she’s really running out of time.  She’d planned to leave herself a nice cushion so that in case anything goes wrong with the train, she won’t be late.  But she should have been out the door fifteen minutes ago.  Despite the air conditioning, she’s sweating as she peels off her current pair of pants, tripping and half-falling onto the bed.  There’s no more time to experiment, she’s just going to have to go back to outfit number one and hope for the best.  Unfortunately, the various pieces of it are now buried underneath everything else she’s tried on, flung haphazardly across the room.  She stalks around in her underwear, cursing out loud, picking things up, tossing them aside.  Finally, she manages to locate and re-attire herself in all of the original ensemble except for one shoe.   _ Where the fuck is that shoe? _

Her phone rings, Jesse’s ring tone.  She answers with a note of impatience as she lowers her head to the floor and peers underneath the bed.  “Yeah?”

“Morning, sunshine,” he jokes.  “So, today’s the big day.  How’s it going?”

“Um, it’s fine, I guess.  I mean, I haven’t even left the house yet, so…” she trails off, thinking she’s found the shoe, but it’s from a similar pair that she’d also tried on.  She holds it next to the one she’s wearing to see if she could combine them.  They’re both for the left foot.  She tosses it aside and goes back to looking.

“You sound out of breath,” Jesse says, obviously enjoying himself.  “Did you freak out about your clothes, try on ten different things, and then go back to the first thing you were wearing?”

She raises her head and meets her own eyes  in the mirror, annoyed.  “Jesse?” she says after a few seconds, with admirable calmness.

“Hmm?”

“I really can’t talk right now.  I’ll try to call you on my lunch break, if I have time.”

“Sounds good.  But only if you have time.”  With his parting words he manages to sound amused and sincere at the same time.  “Good luck, Beca.”

“Thanks.”  

Maybe he has conveyed her some luck, because just as she hangs up, she spots the elusive shoe poking out from under a leather jacket on top of her bed.  Unfortunately, once it’s on, there’s the matter of her hair to worry about.  All the time she’d spent on it before getting dressed had been wasted, it looks the way it normally does at the end of a rough day.  But it’s too late to curl it again, so she settles for pulling it back into a ponytail.  Worried that this makes her look too young, she undoes another shirt button to reveal a bit more boob.  

Then she stands in front of the mirror, smoothing herself down, giving the entire thing one last critical examination.  Other than the ponytail and the extra cleavage, she looks exactly the same as she did to begin with.

She shakes her head a little, closing her eyes briefly as she whispers, “ _ Idiot _ .”

She grabs her bag and her laptop and hurries downstairs, almost forgetting to feed Mr. Cheeto before she leaves for the day.  He’s perched on top of his log as if waiting for her.  She quickly grabs some of the overpriced fresh vegetables from the kitchen and drops them into his terrarium, hoping it’s the right amount.  “Have a nice day,” she tells him.  On her way out the door, she adds, “Don’t invite all your friends over while I’m gone.”

He stares after her, impassive.

* * *

To her relief, everything goes smoothly on her first trip into the heart of the city, and she finds herself standing outside the door of the shabby-chic downtown building with ten minutes still to spare.  There’s no sign or anything to indicate it’s a studio, which somehow makes the place seem even more hip.  Even though she hasn’t been here before, the area already seems familiar to her because she’s been obsessively googling everything she could about it over the past few months.  She’s imagined herself walking through this door so many times that it’s hard to believe it hasn’t actually happened yet.  Now that she’s here, though, she wonders whether she should wait a bit so that she doesn’t seem overeager.  But then she’s afraid someone will spot her loitering around the entrance like a creep, so she decides to go on in.

She finds herself in a small foyer area, opening out at one end to a larger room.  At the back of the room is a counter or high desk, behind which a strikingly attractive thirty-something black woman is speaking on the phone.  In fact, she’s so attractive that for a second Beca thinks she’s made a mistake, that this isn’t the right building after all, and that she’s walked into a spa or a modeling agency.  But then she realizes there are framed gold records and pictures of bands on the walls, so this has to be the place.

Because the woman hasn’t looked up yet or seemed to notice her at all, and because Beca doesn’t want to make a bad first impression by interrupting what could be an important phone call, she wanders around the outer part of the lobby, looking at the wall displays.  At first she’s just pretending to seem interested, but then she finds that she really is.  A lot of these artists are ones she’s listened to and loved over the years.  Many of the others she’s never heard of, but they look intriguing.  She tries to remember the names so that she can check out their stuff later, knowing that the more familiar she is with the musicians represented here, the more valuable she’ll be to the label.  And after they’ve seen how talented she is, she’ll probably be working directly with some of these people.  She hopes to soon be doing all the production on the most high-profile albums.  Maybe she’ll even get to hang out with the artists, outside of work.  Maybe they’ll namedrop her when they win awards.  

She’s lost in her fantasy and doesn’t realize the woman behind the desk has ended her phone call until she hears a voice calling over to her.  “Excuse me?  Can I help you?”  Before Beca can respond, she adds, “If you’re here for a studio session, you’ll have to be accompanied by a parent if you’re not over fifteen.”

“Oh, um, no…” Beca gives an awkward laugh, coming further into the more well-lit part of the lobby and approaching the desk.  “I’m actually supposed to start work here today?  I’m Beca.  Mitchell.”  Quickly, she clarifies, “And I  _ am  _ over fifteen.  But I get that a lot.”

“Riiiight.”  The woman slowly looks Beca over, nodding in recognition.  “They told me they hired a chick, but to be honest, I thought they were joking.  You’re the first one.  Ever.  Other than a few interns, but they didn’t last long.”  This last is delivered with an inscrutable expression.

“What about you?” Beca asks, puzzled.

“Me?  I’m just the office manager.”

“ _ Just _ the office manager,” a man’s deep voice repeats teasingly from off to the side.  Beca turns to see a middle-aged white guy in a shirt and tie emerging from an office.  “Please.  Don’t let her fool you.  Felicia runs this entire place.  Not to mention, she probably knows how to do everyone’s job better than they do.”

“Which she does  _ not  _ get paid for,” Felicia puts in good-naturedly.

“Well, neither do the rest of us, for that matter,” he says.  Then he looks at Beca, smiling, holding his hand out to shake.  “George Driscoll.  I believe we spoke on the phone, but it’s good to meet you in person.  And I’m kidding, of course.  You will get paid.  Just probably not as much as you’d like.” 

“Oh, hi,” she shifts her bag to her other arm and shakes his hand.  “Well, my last internship was unpaid, so,” she shrugs, “literally anything would be an improvement.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says.  He gestures toward his office.  “Shall we?”

“Nice to meet you,” Beca whispers at Felicia, who’s already on the phone again, as she follows him into the other room.  Felicia gives her a distracted smile.

George leads her into a small office, sparely furnished but decorated with a subtle beach vibe, complete with a surfboard hanging on the wall.  She takes a seat in front of his desk, hoping this isn’t going to be like a last-minute interview.  She’d been hoping to get right into the studio.  Besides, she’s not good at interviewing.  As a general rule, the longer she talks, the worse of an impression she makes.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” he tells her as he sits down.  “You’ve probably already noticed we’re not a big, flashy label.  But I like to think we’ve carved out our own niche in the industry.”

“Yeah, I was just looking at all the pictures out there.  I love that you guys rep so many different kinds of artists.”  

“Do we?”  He seems to ponder the idea for the first time.  “I’ll be honest with you, Beca, I don’t really spend a lot of time in the office.” 

“You don’t?” Beca looks surprised.

He turns a novelty plaque on his desk around so that it faces her.  It reads  _ I’d Rather Be Surfing _ .  “You see, running this place isn’t my grand passion.”  He says this in a confessional tone, indicating the board hanging on the wall.  “Surfing is where my heart lies.  Hence the name of the label.”

“Oh, right.  Hang Ten.  I just now got that.”

He nods, becoming contemplative as he gazes at the board.  “In fact, as a child, I always had plans to become a professional.  It’s all I ever wanted.”

“A… professional surfer,” Beca repeats.  She resists the urge to ask if that’s actually a thing.  

He continues.  “But my father had other plans, of course.  He used to say to me, Georgie, you’ll never be a surfer.  You’ll run a record label, just like I run a record label, just like your grandfather ran a record label.  It’s the Driscoll family line, and you can’t fight it.  There’s no point even trying.”  An expression of almost cartoonish resentfulness clouds his features, and he seems to forget his surroundings, staring off into space as if hearing his father’s voice in his memory.

Alarmed and feeling awkward, Beca glances around, not knowing whether to say anything or just wait it out.

He seems to recall himself with a shake of his head, smiling again.  “Anyway.”  He holds his palms out, indicating the room.  “Here we are.   I guess you were right, dad.”  He chuckles bitterly.  “So, as you see, I can’t say this label is my true calling in life.  But I do know how to go with my gut, and I employ brilliant people.  So far, we’ve been very fortunate.  In fact, just last month, I sold a few contracts to Sony.  That’s why we could afford a new hire.  You’re our first in years.  As I’m sure you know, the music industry is a hard place to find work right now.” 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m, like, the only music major from my class to have a job already.  I thought I’d be interning forever.”  In case it’s not already obvious, she adds, “So I really appreciate you taking a chance on me.”

“Well, you come with the highest recommendations,” he assures her.  “Now,” he says, with an air of broaching a new subject.  “It’s not make-or-break, Beca, but I hope you don’t mind me asking.”  He pauses.  “Are you Swedish, by any chance?”

Thrown by the utter unexpectedness of this, she thinks at first she must be hearing him wrong.  “I’m sorry? Did you say  _ Swedish _ ? As in…?”

“Are your ancestors from Sweden?” he confirms.

So, yep.  She did indeed hear him correctly.  Still bewildered, she answers honestly.  “I… don’t think so.  My mom is Jewish, her grandparents came from Poland.  And I’m pretty sure I’m mostly Scottish on my dad’s side?”

“Hm.”  He ponders this.  “Jewish and Scottish, that’s an interesting combination.”

“Yeah,” she agrees.  “It’s where I get my sunny personality.”

He stares at her blankly.

“That was a joke,” she says.  “So, um, Sweden?”

“You see, the reason I ask…”  He leans forward, as if to impart great wisdom to her.  “The Swedes are musical geniuses.  It’s in their DNA.  They practically invented modern pop,” he explains earnestly.  “Tell me, Beca, have you ever heard the Pippi Longstocking theme song?”

She waits a few seconds just to be absolutely positive he’s not messing with her.  “I’m not sure that I have.”

“Well.”  He sits back, as if he’s made his point.  “You should.  It’s a work of melodic art.  And something only a Swede could have produced.”

“Wow.”  She literally has no idea what else to say to this information.

“And we’re very, very lucky to have one here at Hang Ten.”

“A Swede, you mean?” she asks, a little confused, because he’s making Swedes sound like cutting-edge office technology along the lines of a 3-D printer.

Suddenly George glances at the doorway, his face lighting up.  “Ah!  Speak of the Scandinavian devil, there he is now.  Sven, come in here!  I want you to meet our newest team member.”

Beca stands up to shake the hand of the man who seems to only reluctantly enter the room.  Physically, he reminds her a bit of Luke, her station manager from her old campus radio gig.  Only even more chiseled, more blonde, and more, well,  _ Swedish _ .  If she had to guess she would place him in his forties, but he’s obviously trying to look younger, judging by the tight t-shirt and designer jeans.  She notices him quickly scan her body before he actually looks at her face, and she’s both irritated by it and also glad that her boobs look good in this shirt.  

“So the chosen one arrives,” he says as he shakes her hand, with just a faint trace of an accent.   “Your reputation precedes you, miss.”  He makes this sound more ironic than complimentary, so Beca isn’t sure how to respond.   

“Sven runs our studio,” George explains, hardly able to contain his excitement.  “He has quite the impressive  background .  He’s a  protégé  of Max Martin - in fact, before he came to the States, he worked with Ace of Base.”

“Really?” 

“You know  _ I Saw the Sign _ ?” Sven asks her.

“Do I ever,” she murmurs with a tight smile, but decides not to go into detail about it.  He doesn’t seem much interested, anyway.  

Speaking to George, Sven says, “Bad news.  Roger just told me that Jelly Shoes is threatening to walk if we move their release date back again, so all the mastering needs to be done by the end of this week.”

“Ah.”  George squints.  “I have absolutely no idea who that is, but I can only assume it’s one of our artists, and that you’re on top of things.  Maybe Beca could help?”

“Yeah, I’d love to,” she agrees. 

“She has a superb technical background, I’m told,” George tells Sven.  “Impeccable mixing skills.”  With clear regret, he adds, “Unfortunately, she’s not even a little bit Swedish.”  

Beca shakes her head with a slight air of apology, as if this is a personal defect.  

“Nevertheless,” George continues, “I think she’s going to be a major asset to the label.”

Sven glances at Beca again, and it’s clear he doesn’t share this level of confidence in her abilities.  “I don’t know.  Bringing someone onto an album this late in the process would be tough.”  Tepidly, he adds, “But I’ll try to find something for her to do.”

“That’d be great,” Beca says, even though he’s not actually talking to her.  “Whatever you need, I’m ready to get started.”

“How about a tour first?” George offers.  

She supposes she can’t exactly say no to this, so he leads her out into the hallway as Sven heads off in the opposite direction.

First he shows her where the main bathroom is, offering to wait outside if she needs to use it.  (“I’m good,” she assures him.)  Next is the break room, which she’s relieved to see contains only one coffee maker.  

“The microwave is a bit temperamental,” George warns her.  “Make sure you don’t stand too close when it’s on, Felicia thinks it may be on the verge of exploding.”  

Beca makes a mental note to bring only food that doesn’t need to be microwaved.

A little further down the hall is Sven’s office, which she just glimpses briefly as they pass the open door, but which seems to be huge, even bigger than George’s office, a detail Beca finds odd.  From what she’s learned about the music business, a label president would normally outrank a producer.  But she doesn’t comment on it.

Next to Sven’s office is another, smaller bathroom, but George issues a caveat as he flips the light switch on.  “Now, the sink is fine to use, but don’t ever flush that toilet, it floods Sven’s office like a tsunami.  We think there may be some razor blades lodged in the pipes, from the eighties.  There was a lot of cocaine snorted here back in the day.  Sometimes, when the AC kicks on, you can still see the faintest white  _ poof  _ come out of the vents.”  He says this in a fond way, like he’s remembering better times.  “But like I said,” he turns out the light in the bathroom.  “No flushing.  You can  _ use  _ it if you absolutely have to.  But please don’t flush it.”

Beca considers this.  “Probably just won’t use it then.”

“Well.  That’s your call.”

As she follows him down the hall with a wary smile, she wonders if it’s her fate in life to never work for a boss who’s not a total weirdo.

He indicates a closed door.  “This is the marketing and publicity office, but we don’t have anyone heading that department right now, we all just pitch in as needed.  As you can probably see, we’re a bit of a skeleton staff at the moment.  Only the essentials.”  He approaches another door on the opposite side of the hall, saying, “And here we are at Roger’s office.”  Giving the door a few taps, he doesn’t wait for an invitation before swinging it open.  

Beca peers around him to see yet another white guy in his forties.  Although one could be forgiven for mistaking this one for a younger man, since at the moment he seems to be in the middle of an energetic air guitar performance.  She cringes on his behalf, hoping they haven’t embarrassed him.  

But when he looks up and sees them in the doorway, he doesn’t stop.  Instead, he continues on through to the end of whatever internal music he’s hearing, swinging his arm as he tears at the imaginary strings.  Then he drops down into a kneeling position, his face contorted in a grimace of intensity as he raises the invisible guitar over his head in a protracted finale.   Finally, he opens his eyes and hops up, wincing as one of his knees pops.  “Shit,” he groans.  “I gotta put some carpet in here.”

“Good show?” George asks him.

“Oh, man.  If you could hear the way that sounded in my head?  You’d be so impressed right now.”  He nods toward Beca.  “Who’s the chica?  Did I forget an appointment?”

“You probably did,” George says.  “But this isn’t it.  Remember, I told you our new hire was starting today?

“Oh, right right right!  The girl we picked.  What’s up?”  He steps forward to high five her, which Beca returns, trying not to be awkward about it.

“Roger is our A&R man,” George explains.  “He has golden ears when it comes to finding new talent.  He also possesses the patience to deal with that talent.”

“It’s true, I am a certified expert in kissing ass,” Roger confirms.  “I also possess a Ph.D in advanced knob polishing.”

Beca laughs.  She’s already decided she likes this guy.  He reminds her of an older version of Jesse.  “I’m Beca,” she tells him.  “That was some impressive air guitar.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks.  But I’m just an amateur, really,” he shrugs with exaggerated modesty.  “I’m much better on the air drums.  You play?”

“Only when nobody’s watching.”

“Wise woman,” he nods sagely.  “Hey, you met Miggy yet?”

She looks confused, and George tells him, “Studio’s next on the tour.  So, we’ll let you get back to work.”  He glances pointedly at Roger’s messy desk.  “Maybe check the appointment calendar?”

“Sure thing, boss man.”  Roger gives him a thumbs-up.  “Will do.”

“Nice to meet you,” Beca tells Roger as George pulls the door closed.

“Catch ya later, Beca-nator!”  As they round a corner at the end of the hallway, Beca hears Roger’s voice bellowing toward the front of the building.  “Yo, Felicia, I got any appointments today?”

Beca casts a sideways glance at George, who assures her, “He’s really very good at what he does.”

Finally, he leads her through another door into a darker room, saying, “And here at the back, we have our studio.  Totally up to date with all the latest technology, of course, but we also have a good collection of vintage equipment as well.  Unlike most small labels, we do all our own recording on site.  We also take in some extra income by renting out the booth to other labels, and sometimes to individuals self-funding their own projects.”

Beca’s barely listening.  She’s gazing around the fully-equipped studio and recording booth like she’s just entered the portal to heaven.  This is why she’s here, the inner sanctum she’s been yearning for all along.  Somehow, this room feels more comfortable and familiar than the apartment waiting for her in El Segundo.  It feels like home.  

As George continues talking, she runs her fingers lightly and reverently over the toggle switches on a vintage synthesizer, wondering if it would be rude to ask if she can cut the tour short and get started immediately.  It’s not like she’ll be in the way.  Unlike at Residual Heat, this place thankfully isn’t crawling with interns.  In fact, once her eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting, she sees there’s only one other person in here - a young Hispanic guy who’s watching her intently.

When he sees that she’s noticed him, he stands up and starts to come toward her.  Then he remembers he’s wearing headphones attached to the board, takes them off and tosses them aside before resuming his progress, rushing up to her like an excited puppy.

“Beca, right?   _ Damnnn _ girl, you’re tiny for such a huge talent.”

“Excuse me?”  She stares at him, bewildered.

“Wait, did that sound sexist?  Cuz I meant it in a good way.  Hold up, let me start over.”

“How about I do the introductions?” George suggests, as if to rescue him.  “Beca, meet Miggy.”

“Miguel,” he clarifies.  “But everyone calls me Miggy.  I’m the assistant sound engineer.  Or, one of ‘em.  I guess you’re the other one now.  So that makes us, like, co-assistants?”

As he rambles on she realizes he’s not as young as she first thought, it’s just that he’s short - barely taller than her, in fact.  He’s probably around thirty, although still sporting some unfortunate youthful acne.  

“So, we’ll probably be working together a lot, that’s why I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.  Oh, and also?” Miggy adds with enthusiasm.  “I’m, like, your biggest fan.”

Before Beca can figure out how to reply to this, George interrupts.  “On that note, why don’t I leave you two to get acquainted?  There’s not much more I can show you, anyway.  I’m afraid my expertise doesn’t extend to…” he gestures at all the sound equipment, “any of this.”

“Okay,” Beca tells him, trying not to let her eagerness show.  “Um, thanks for the tour.”

“Enjoy your first day.”  As he leaves the room, he glances back, “And don’t forget,” he says, pointing at her meaningfully.  “ _ Pippi Longstocking _ .”

“Right,” Beca nods.  “I will track that down.  ASAP.”  After he’s gone, she turns back to Miggy, curious.  “So… are you, like, an acapella fan?”

“No, no, I’m  _ your  _ fan,” he insists.  “After they hired you I went online and found your Soundcloud page, I been listening to all your mixes for weeks.”

She gives him an incredulous look.  “Dude, you listened to my stuff?  Like,  _ all  _ of it?”

“Yeah!  In chronological order, starting with 2010.  Which I’m guessing was your angsty teen phase, cuz there’s a lot of My Chemical Romance.”

“That is amazing.”  She’s grinning at him like she can hardly believe he exists.  “I don’t think anyone besides me has ever listened to all my stuff.  Not even my boyfriend.”

“His loss,” Miggy says, and she’s relieved to see that there’s not even a trace of flirtation in his manner.  In fact, he already feels a bit like a kid brother, even though she’s younger.

He goes on, still seemingly in awe.  “Your sense of timing?  Freakin’ mindblowing.  And I love how you pull shit from different decades,” he waves his arms around as if to illustrate.  “Like mashing up Halsey with Cyndi Lauper?  Bizarre, but genius.”

“Oh, yeah,” Beca smiles.  “Actually my friend Chloe came up with that idea while she was drunk, but,” she shrugs, “I thought it worked.”

“It  _ totally  _ worked,” Miggy agrees. 

“Miggy.”  They both turn to see that Sven has come into the studio.  “Wrap up the lovefest, bro, I need that overdub on track three finished by the end of the day.”

“Almost got it done,” Miggy tells him.  Before he returns to his station, he leans closer to Beca and says in a conspiratorial tone, “Listen, I just want you to know, I bow at your feet.”  He glances down.  “But not, like, literally, because the floor in here ain’t clean.  That’s my fault, I’m supposed to clean it.”

Beca laughs, but before she can say anything Sven calls again, more insistent this time.  “Miggy!”

“Yeah, man, I’m on it.  You don’t gotta yodel at me.”  He finally returns to his spot at the mixing desk.

Sven is now bent over a laptop monitor, staring at it intently.  Beca waits a few seconds for him to give her some kind of direction.  He doesn’t.  

When she’s waited long enough that it’s starting to get awkward and he still hasn’t acknowledged her, she approaches him, trying to look casual, and puts herself right in his field of vision.  “Hey, so, where do you want me?”

When he eventually looks up, it’s with the hint of a lewd smile, as if he’s considering making an off-color reply to this.  Beca feels an instinctive flicker of disgust, as well as some kind of primitive warning signal, but she doesn’t show any sign of it.

Sven looks around the studio as he rubs the bridge of his nose.  “Let me think.”  Finally, he seems to hit on an idea, and he guides her over to a computer station that’s running what looks like an auto-tune program.  “This band, Jelly Shoes,” he tells her.  “They have a unique sound, but they’re shit singers.  Every song needs pitch correction.  You can handle that?”

“Yeah, definitely.”  She sits down and tugs the cushioned headphones around her neck, eager to get started.  It’s not going to be exciting work, but at least it’s something.  Noticing that Sven still seems reluctant to leave her, she asks, “Is that all?”

In a tone that she can’t help but hear as patronizing, he suggests, “Try not to make them sound like robots.”

“I won’t.  I know what I’m doing.”  She’s smiling, but obviously losing patience, because he doesn’t seem convinced.  She adds with a hint of cockiness, “I’m good at this.”

Smirking, all he says is, “We’ll see.”

She drops her polite face when he turns to go, willing herself not to make a smartass reply on her very first day.  She decides the best revenge will be to present him with the most immaculately flawless pitch correction that’s ever been done here.

Felicia has just come into the studio to drop off a stack of papers, and seems to have overheard the end of this exchange.  She watches Sven return to his laptop and looks as if she wants to say something to Beca, but then changes her mind.  For the rest of the day, Beca waits for a chance to chat with her again, to try to get to know her, since they’d barely moved beyond introductions when she’d arrived.  But there isn’t much opportunity because Felicia is rarely still; she seems to be everywhere at once, dipping in and out of offices and the studio and coordinating everyone’s work with brisk efficiency.  George’s earlier remark about her running the entire place is apparently not an exaggeration.  

It certainly isn’t George himself who’s doing the job - in fact, it’s just past two in the afternoon when he ducks his head into the door of the studio.  “Well, I’m off!”  He’s wearing swim trunks and carrying a surfboard.  “I’ll try to be back by five, but if I’m not, hold down the fort, kids.”

“Have a good one, boss,” Miggy calls after him.  To Beca, he explains in a low voice, “He has to surf every day or he gets constipated.”

“Sure.”  She tries to keep her expression even and free of judgment.  “That sounds… totally normal.”

Because she’s never worked more than a four-hour shift before, Beca had been worried that the day would drag after the initial high of being there faded.  But even while spending her time engaged in a relatively boring task that doesn’t require much creative input, she’s relieved to see that the hours fly by.  The band she’s pitch-correcting, Jelly Shoes, is interesting, actually.  It’s a female punk group with some hip hop elements, and their sound is angry but witty.  Sven was wrong about them being shit singers; they have a lot of raw talent, but it’s obvious they’ve had no vocal training.  Beca finds herself becoming absorbed in the work for its own sake, not just because she’s getting paid to do it.  But as five o’clock approaches, she realizes she won’t get it finished today, so her moment of triumph at a job perfectly accomplished will have to wait.

Luckily, Sven doesn’t ask to see her progress.  In fact, he seems to forget she’s there.  For most of the day he goes back and forth between the studio and his office, looking tense and abstracted.  Beca overhears him telling Felicia to cancel everyone else’s recording sessions for the week so they can concentrate on the album prep.

Not long before the label closes for the day, she’s coming out of the front bathroom when she nearly runs smack into a Domino’s delivery guy carrying a stack of pizzas.  When he looks up from his notepad and examines her, he asks, “Are you Beca Mitchell, by any chance?”

Confused, because she hasn’t ordered anything, she says, “Yeah?”

The guy seems equally confused as he consults his notepad again.  “Then I have an order for you that was placed by...” he hesitates, reading the name as if convinced it must be wrong.  “Fat Amy?”

Beca smiles.  “That sounds right.”  Amy’s ways of keeping in touch are not the usual ways, but they work.

“There’s also a message,” the guy continues.  “It says  _ Congrats on your gainful employment, shawty.  Hope this impresses everyone.  You’re welcome _ .”

She nods as she takes the pizzas from him, explaining, “It’s my first day here.  Thanks,” she tells him, preparing to head back to the break room.

But he stops her, saying a bit awkwardly, “The thing is, she didn’t actually pay for them?  She said you’d understand.”

Beca takes in this information, her face registering annoyance but not much surprise.  More to herself than to him, she mutters wryly, “Of course she didn’t.” 

Once she’s shelled out the cash and gotten over her initial irritation, however, she has to admit that Amy was right, the pizzas do make a positive impression on the entire staff, and seem to cement their good opinions of her.  It’s the kind of gesture she never would have thought to make on her own.  George arrives back at the office just in time to join them in the break room, hair still damp and smelling like salt water, but once again wearing a shirt and tie.  Even the harried Sven stops by for a slice, although he fastidiously removes all the cheese from it first.

Before she knows it, the work day is officially over.  Beca lingers around the office for a bit even after it’s closed, talking about music and comparing favorite artists with Roger and Miggy.  When she realizes how late it’s getting she has to gather her stuff and leave in a hurry, rushing to catch her train.  She just barely makes it, sinking back against the hard plastic seat of the metro car with relief and a sense of amazement that she’s just completed her first day at a real, post-college nine to five job in the recording industry.  This is her actual life now.  She’s doing this shit.  Somehow it still doesn’t seem quite real.

She arrives back at the El Segundo apartment feeling a mixture of exhausted and energized.  Tossing her jacket onto the couch, she looks around the living room, noticing again what a mess everything is and how little unpacking she’s actually accomplished.  But wait, some of this mess isn’t hers, is it?  There are books all over the floor.  She follows the trail of evidence up to the top of the bookshelves, where Mr. Cheeto is basking in the very last of the evening sunlight, watching her.

She glances down at the books and then back up at him.  “Did you read all those?” 

In answer, he looks at her for a few more seconds as if coming to a decision, then turns away and begins a slow, methodical journey back down the side of the shelves and into his terrarium, where he again disappears inside his hollow log.

“I’m trying not to take that personally,” Beca calls after him.  

Since she’s already had dinner, there’s nothing much on the agenda for the rest of the night.  Briefly she considers going out, but where?  And also, why?  She should probably focus on finishing her unpacking and making this place look less disastrous.  Instead, she decides to research some of the Hang Ten artists and listen to their stuff, sort of like voluntary homework.

After heading upstairs to the bedroom, she texts Amy.   _ Thanks for the pizzas, they were a big hit.  _  She adds a second message.   _ You owe me $60.  _  Even as she hits send, she knows there’s not a chance in hell she’ll ever see that money.

Then, for the second time, she finds herself hesitating between Jesse’s and Chloe’s names in her contacts list.  She’d only had time to text Jesse at lunch.  She really should call him.  She’d told him she would.  This shouldn’t even be a debate.  He’s her boyfriend.  There’s no excuse at all for not calling him.

She calls Chloe.

Chloe answers without even saying hello.  “So?” she demands excitedly.  “How did it go?  Is it your dream job?”  

“My dream job?” Beca repeats.  “Hm…” she considers this question as she kicks her shoes off and pulls her feet up onto the bed.  “I’ll have to get back to you on that one.  But I like it.  The studio is insane.  They’ve got equipment in there that I didn’t even think still existed.  It’s like, I’ve lusted over this stuff in vintage catalogs, but I never thought I’d actually get to use it, you know?”

“That’s so awesome, Beca.”  Chloe sounds genuinely thrilled for her.  “Is it like when I had that lifelong fantasy of being in a bathtub filled with koosh balls, and you guys made it happen for my twenty-third birthday?”

“Exactly like that,” Beca agrees.  “Only, with less koosh balls.  And I kept all my clothes on.”

“What about your co-workers?”

“They also kept their clothes on.  All day.  It was crazy.”

“No, you know what I mean,” Chloe laughs.  “Do you like them?  Have they already replaced the Bellas in your heart?”  She’s joking, but there’s a hint of real anxiety in her tone.

“Not quite yet,” Beca assures her.  “I mean, I haven’t even had a shower duet with anyone, so how can they compete?”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“They seem nice, though.  Most of them, anyway,” she adds, thinking of Sven.  “Oh, but my boss is a total kook, you’d love him.  Like, off the charts weird.”

“Ooh, how so?”  Chloe sounds intrigued.

“You really want all the details?”

“Yes!  All of them.”

“Okay.  Then, I have to ask you a really important question, Chlo.”  She settles herself onto the bed and plumps a pillow under her chest, leaning forward on it, drawing out the tension for a few seconds.  “Have you ever heard the Pippi Longstocking theme song?”

___________________________

_1\. "Gesù Cristo, che macello. C'hanno ammazzato qualcuno qua dentro?" = "Jesus Christ, what a disaster. Did they kill someone in here?"_

_2\. "Dov'è la tua mamma?" = "Are you alone? Is your dad gone? Where's your mom?"_

_3\. "Questa mi muore di fame qua dentro." = "This one will starve on me in here."_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the long gap between updates, as soon as I get past this description-heavy section of the flashback, the updates should come much quicker. Once again I had to break off a chunk and post it separately because to end where I’d planned to would have made this insanely long! I hope the slow burn isn’t too frustrating, I really want to show their connection and their friendship before I introduce anything romantic or sexual, I think it’ll eventually be more rewarding that way.
> 
> A little note about the “casting” - my friend informed me after reading the last chapter that she thinks the actor I was using for Sven is entirely too creepy (he was her idea anyway :P), so I changed him to David Anders. And in my head Beca’s mom is played, for some reason, by Bette Midler. That is definitely NOT who I originally pictured in that part, but when I was writing her, that’s the voice that kept coming back into my mind no matter how hard I tried to hear someone else. Sometimes you just have to give in.
> 
> The Italian translations for Carmelina’s lines are in footnotes at the bottom (thank you again to you-know-who for those!) And this chapter begins somewhat abruptly, but it was originally supposed to follow directly from the last section in the previous chapter, not form the start of a new one.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading. Please review if you can, and let me know of any thoughts, questions, ideas, whatever!

  
**Chapter 3**   
  


The early weeks of her new life in Los Angeles are a bit of blur to Beca - not only later, looking back at them, but even while she’s living through them.  The first week at work is especially hectic because of the looming deadline for completing the Jelly Shoes album.  She tries to help as much as she can, in order to prove herself and demonstrate the kind of contribution she can make to the label.  

On her second day, when she shows her completed pitch correction to Sven, she waits with a mixture of tension and curiosity to see how he’ll respond.  She knows it’s good work, she’s in no doubt about the quality.  She’s not looking for affirmation, but only an acknowledgment of her skills and hopefully another job that’s more interesting.

He presses the headphones to his ears and listens with grim concentration, as if he’s working hard to spot a flaw.  

Beca keeps her expression even, trying not to look smug, because she’s knows he’s not going to find any.

Finally, he has to admit the inevitable.  “This sounds fine,” he says without looking at her, as he pulls the headphones off and tosses them aside.  “I’ll add it to the final mix.”

She waits a beat, but there’s nothing more.  Since this is apparently the highest praise he’s willing to offer, she moves on.  “So, what else can I do?”  She hurries to add, “Actually, while I was listening, I had a few ideas, for some of these tracks?  Like track two, for instance, I think if they got rid of that B section in the verses, because it’s sort of dragging the song down, if they replaced that with an instrumental break before the chorus?  It could be done, just electronically, I mean I could actually do that with- “

“Beca?” he interrupts, finally giving her his attention.  He’s been listening to this with a kind of stunned bemusement.  “All the creative decisions have been made, at this point.”   _ By me _ , seems to be the unspoken addendum.  “What I need from you is mostly just technical assistance.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  She absorbs this.  “So, do you want me to add in some effects, or, like- ”

He interrupts her again.  “Can you handle noise reduction?”

“Noise reduction,” she repeats.  If possible, this is an even more boring job than pitch correction.  But she forces some enthusiasm.  “Yeah, of course.  I can do that.”  She waits, but when he doesn’t offer anything else, she says, “I’m on it.”  

She returns to her station, suppressing a sigh.  She reminds herself that this is literally what she was hired for, this is what studio engineers do.  It can’t all be fun and creative.  _  You’ll get there _ ,  _ just be patient, _ a voice inside her head tells her.  Weirdly, the voice sounds more like Chloe than like herself.  Maybe because she’s never been that good at optimism.  Or patience, for that matter.

But she knows this week is not the norm for the label, with the rush to complete the mastering for an album whose release date has already been pushed back multiple times.  She assumes that once things settle down and go back to the usual, she’ll have more freedom to indulge her muse.  Her ear for melody and her ability to improvise were apparently why she was hired, after all.  Why would they want to waste her talents?

The fact that she’s not overly absorbed in her work during that first week turns out to be a bit of a mixed blessing, anyway, because it gives her more of a chance to get to know her new co-workers.  Not Sven, so much, since he’s frantically working on the album every single minute - which she’s not exactly bummed about, given her initial impressions of him.  But the others, despite their obviously busy schedules, seem to go out of their way to make her feel welcome and like a part of the team.  She knows how rare that is and tries not to take it for granted.  

Miggy, true to his word, really does seem to be her biggest fan.  During breaks in the studio, he peppers her with questions about her mash-up process, amazing her with his genuine interest and enthusiasm as well as his memory for detail.  He seems completely comfortable with the idea that she’s more talented than he is.  Not only that, but the two of them share the same taste in music as well as a similar sense of humor, and she hopes that eventually she’ll be able to count him as a friend and not just a co-worker.  To her relief, she gathers from watching his interactions with Sven that their opinion of the studio boss is another thing they have in common, because Miggy doesn’t seem to be much of a fan.  But he’s subtle about it and doesn’t make waves, probably because he knows how rare these jobs are and how difficult, maybe impossible, it would be to find another one - a fact of which Beca also finds it necessary to keep reminding herself.

Roger, the label’s A&R guy, turns out to be just what she’d suspected on first meeting him, which is basically an older version of Jesse - charming, goofy, maybe a little annoying in large doses.  Beca can see why he’s good at bringing in artists and then serving as their liaison to the label, because he’s a genuine people-person.  He’s laidback and a good listener, and he’s impossible to offend, despite what seem to be Felicia’s constant efforts.  At first, Beca thinks that Felicia truly doesn’t like him, but after getting to know the staff better, she realizes the two of them have a kind of sibling-like rapport where the annoyance is undergirded by affection.  For his part, Roger seems to think of the entire office as his family, and often when no artists are scheduled to record and he seems to have nothing better to do, he wanders idly around the place, bestowing nicknames, telling terrible jokes, offering to make Starbucks runs  - “helping out” he calls it.  “Getting under my damn feet,” Felicia calls it, who’s constantly banishing him back to his office like a mom sending a kid to do homework.

George, the label president, has a kind of benign fatherly presence around the building, often coming across like a bumbling-but-sometimes-wise sitcom dad.  It’s clear everyone at Hang Ten respects him, but it’s a casual kind of respect, not motivated by fear; he’s clearly not the type to arbitrarily fire anyone.  His surfing absences aside, he seems adept enough at running the financial side of the label, notwithstanding his seeming lack of interest in the artists themselves.  Beca has always assumed that label heads and studio executives must be passionate about music, but it appears it’s not a requirement.  Aside from his business acumen, he’s a total weirdo, confirming her initial impression.  But, luckily, not the creepy kind.  

Felicia, the office manager and currently the only other woman at the small label, proves to be a little harder to get to know than the guys.  Partly because she’s always so busy - for a while Beca’s not sure when, or even  _ if _ , she eats lunch.  But also because in the beginning, she senses that Felicia is deliberately keeping just a bit of space between them, not in a hostile way, but cautiously, as if to observe her from a distance before coming to any conclusions.  When they do interact, Felicia’s manner is helpful and patient, but also dryly amused at Beca’s beginner’s awkwardness around the place.  Her attitude reminds Beca of her own treatment of Emily during her first year as a Bella.  It’s disconcerting to go from being the older, wiser expert to the bumbling noob at the bottom of the heap, like the transition from high school senior to college freshman all over again.  She also finds Felicia’s beauty just a little intimidating; from Miggy, Beca learns that she has a side gig as a model, or at least she used to before she crossed the dreaded threshold of thirty.  And here Beca had thought that at an indie label, with a bunch of middle-aged guys and music nerds, she'd at least be the hottest chick around for once.  But nope.  Not even here.

Since Beca herself is also not the type to rush into close female friendships, though, Felicia’s distance doesn’t faze her much.  She figures she’ll either warm up to her eventually, or she won’t.  Either way, she’s fine with it as long as everything stays professional.  She’s here to earn her living and get valuable career experience, not to make friends.  She already has friends, she reminds herself.  Even if it currently feels like they’re a million miles away.

That first week passes in a hectic blur of last-minute studio mixing.  She’s given plenty of time-killing jobs to do by Sven, most of them boring, but she at least feels like she’s making a contribution.  He remains outwardly unimpressed by her work, but it apparently passes muster, because he doesn’t make any further changes to what she’s done and he gradually trusts her with slightly more demanding technical tasks as the week wears on.  

On Friday, she gets a chance to meet the band whose songs she’s been working on in exhaustive detail all week when they come in to listen to the final masters.  There are four of them, all women in their late twenties, and they seem even at a glance to be some of the most genuinely cool people Beca’s ever encountered.  She’d like to chat with them, ask them about some of their stuff, but she can tell right away she probably won’t get much of a chance.  After a cursory introduction, their time is monopolized by Sven.

Beca hangs back, unobtrusive but observant, curious to see how he behaves around the artists.  The arrangement here is a bit odd by industry standards; unlike some labels, Hang Ten handles producer hiring and payment, rather than making the artists deal with it themselves.  But there’s a catch.  If the talent wants the best deal, they have to work with Sven, at the label’s in-house studio.  They have the option to bring in other producers or even record elsewhere if they choose, but they’ll end up paying a lot more for the privilege, and from what Beca can gather, most don’t bother.  Which means that Sven has a producer credit, usually the  _ sole  _ credit, on nearly every album the label releases.  

Watching from the back of the studio, Beca tries to discern whether the members of Jelly Shoes think that he’s worth the bargain.  She gets the vibe almost immediately that they don’t.  Jocelyn, the lead singer, seems to regard him with a kind of wary tolerance, pretending to be more enthusiastic about his work than she really is.  Beca knows this is their first album, and suspects they may not be quite sure of themselves, at least when it comes to overruling the opinions of the guy who’s supposed to know better than they do how all this works.  It’s obvious that they’ve already given up trying to get him to take them seriously, and are now just ready for the whole process to be finished.

Eventually, their clear lack of excitement infects her as well, and Beca gets bored and tunes out a bit.  They seem to be close to wrapping things up for the day anyway, and since she hasn’t been given anything to do, she texts Chloe, sending her a sneaky pic she took of the band, hoping it makes her job look more cool than it’s so far proving to be.  But then Sven says something that grabs her attention.

“Oh, one other thing, ladies.  I wanted to see how you felt about making some changes on the second track.  Instead of the vocals before the chorus, I did an edited version with an electronic interlude, see how you like it.”

Beca looks up sharply from her phone, surprised, and sees Miggy catch her eye, then look away uncomfortably.

The band members listen closely as Sven plays them the track.  Beca listens too.  It’s not bad, but it’s not what she would have done.  Hers would have been better.

But they like it, and agree that it sounds better without the vocals.  For the first time since they entered the studio, their satisfaction isn’t faked.  “Okay, now  _ that  _ is the shit.  I never would have thought of that,” Jocelyn admits, seeming impressed.

Sven smirks, ducking his head in a way that’s probably supposed to seem modest, but comes across as cocky.  Beca waits (naively, she realizes later) for him to acknowledge her.  She doesn’t expect much, definitely not any kind of official album credit, but a mention would be nice.  Even just a glance, a nod in her direction, some kind of recognition that the idea came from her.  

But there’s nothing.  It’s as if he genuinely believes he came up with it himself.  

Miggy shakes his head, but doesn’t meet her eye again - he seems ashamed, even though it’s of course not his fault.  Beca doesn’t say anything, letting the moment pass as if she hasn’t noticed.  She’s irritated, but in a way, she also finds it funny.  It’s just so  _ cliché _ .  Part of her can’t believe it really happened.  Doesn’t he realize what a walking stereotype he is?  Isn’t he even embarrassed?  Based on his casual and unchanged behavior toward her for the rest of the day, it doesn’t seem so. 

When she describes the incident that evening to Jesse, the first time she’s actually spoken to him since Sunday, he’s sympathetic.

“That really sucks, Bec.   _ Men  _ suck.  You know what, on behalf of all men?  I apologize.”

“Are you allowed to do that?” she muses.

“Yeah, you know, actually, it’s in the handbook.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it right here in front of me.  It’s under the chapter  _ Taking One for the Team _ .  Which, incidentally, is also the chapter where you learn how to not make your girlfriend feel guilty for only calling you once a week.”

“Hm,” she says wryly.  “That sounds like a good skill to have.”

“Oh, I predict it’s going to be my  _ most  _ important skill,” he agrees.

Beca doesn’t mention the incident to Chloe at all, fearing that she might do something impulsive and dramatic, like contacting Sven.  Chloe in protective-mode is a force that, once unleashed, can’t always be controlled.  Having her for a best friend is like having a superpower that you have to be cautious about deploying, lest you blow something up.  Beca makes the decision that first weekend that she’s going to complain to her as little as possible.  She doesn’t want her to worry; but maybe more importantly, she doesn’t want to lean on her sympathy, because Chloe always has a lot of sympathy to spare, and if Beca is already in the mood to feel sorry for herself, she’s afraid she’ll abuse the privilege.  She decides to keep things on the bright side in their conversations as much as possible.  Not to lie, exactly, but to focus on the positive.

This resolution is tested over the next few weeks, because there’s a lot that she could complain about.  The bright side becomes increasingly hard to find, even as she waits and waits for her period of adjustment to end and her awesome new life to kick in.

For instance, one of the main problems that she hadn't foreseen clearly enough before moving here was her lack of a car.  Not only does she not have a vehicle, she doesn't even drive.  She'd never bothered to get her license in high school because her mom couldn't afford to buy her anything, and she refused to accept a car from her dad.  Now she's stuck taking public transportation in a city where the car is regarded as a personal fetish object, and where only the lowest of the low scurry around like rats on buses and trains.  And there's barely any local service, she can't even get to the station from her house without walking half a mile.  Sometimes she catches a ride with a woman from down the street, but she makes Beca paint the nails on one of her hands while she drives with the other, which is awkward, considering they don't know each other that well.  Usually she just walks.  

Then she has to take not one, but two different trains to get to the studio downtown.  The ride is usually miserable; noisy and crowded and disgusting and always freaking  _ windy _ .  She spends most of the trip hunkered into a corner, hood up, headphones and sunglasses on, looking unapproachable and semi-comatose.  She hates it, but from what she can tell the bus is worse, and also more likely to run off schedule.  As it is, even the train causes her to show up late at least once a week.  Luckily George isn't a stickler for punctuality, she doubts he even notices.  Felicia surely notices, but she doesn’t mention it, which Beca chooses to take as a sign that she doesn’t hate her.

She considers trying to find an apartment downtown, closer to work, but a halfhearted search reveals that there aren’t many places she could afford without a roommate.  And the thought of living with a random stranger again is horrible enough to make even the most hellish metro commute seem worth it.  At least she has a relatively spacious place that’s all her own, even if it looks like the aftermath of an earthquake and comes with a bonus lizard that she never asked for.

And that’s another thing that doesn’t seem to improve much over her first few weeks and months in El Segundo - her relationship with Mr. Cheeto.  She’d assumed that after the iguana got used to her presence, he would be… not friendly, exactly, but maybe not so openly disdainful of her?  He never seems to want to share the same space.  Or at least he doesn’t want her to know he’s sharing the space.  Sometimes she loses track of him for hours only to discover him not too far away, lurking in a corner or perched on a shelf, watching her.  Then, when he’s been spotted, he drags himself back into hiding or retreats to the hollow log in his terrarium, like a surly teenager who just doesn’t want to talk.  She gets the distinct impression sometimes that he’s judging her.

Her actual human neighbor is not much more communicative, and seemingly just as suspicious of her motives; possibly, Beca feels, of her entire existence.  After their first confusing meeting, Beca doesn’t encounter the elderly Italian lady from the other half of her duplex for a week.  From another neighbor across the street, she learns that the woman’s name is Carmelina, that she apparently doesn’t speak much English, and that she keeps to herself and doesn’t go out much.  Not wanting to bother her, Beca decides to wait until she sees her again rather than knocking on her door to return the plate that her charity meal was delivered on, that first night.

Finally, she spots her again one afternoon, on the front porch of the house, tending to an assortment of potted plants.  Beca gathers that she considers the entire porch to be her territory, which is fine - there’s an upstairs balcony on her own side if she wants outdoor space, although she hasn’t even used it yet.  

She grabs the plate from the dish drain in the kitchen and goes out to the porch, approaching behind the woman a bit cautiously, not knowing how good her hearing is and not wanting to startle her. 

Bent over her gardening work, Carmelina seems to be speaking Italian to the flowers, addressing in a soothing tone a pot of geraniums whose petals look decidedly wilted.  “ _ Proprio non mi volete crescere, bimbe mie. Cosa c'è, è colpa di questo mascalzone qui? Vi sta dando noia _ ? ”  She gestures at an erect and healthy-looking marigold next to the geraniums.   " _ Eppure l'avevo avvisato, vero _ _? _ ”  Without hesitation, she now raises her clippers and hacks the entire top of the marigold off, leaving an empty stem.  “ _ Ecco qua! Guardiamo se vi da ancora noia, adesso. _ ”

Beca freezes in her tracks, baffled, wondering if this is a bad time.  But it’s too late, because as Carmelina surveys with contentment the scene of her flower murder, she seems to sense Beca behind her, and now she turns to spot her.

“Hi,” Beca tells her with forced brightness, glancing nervously at the beheaded marigold.  “It’s, um, it’s Carmelina, right?  Is it okay if I call you that?”

Carmelina stares at her, looking her over from head to toe.  Wordlessly, she sets aside her gardening gloves, as well as, to Beca’s relief, her sharp-looking clippers.  Then, with clear purpose, she approaches and moves in close to Beca, who tries not to step backward.  The old woman stops in front of her and yanks the two gaping halves of Beca’s plaid shirt together, then fastens the top three buttons that had been revealing, apparently, too much cleavage.

“Oh,” Beca looks down uncomfortably as she watches her work, “um, thank you.  Must have… missed those.”

Carmelina steps back and appraises her alteration, satisfied.

“So, anyway,” Beca attempts, looking up, “I just wanted to give you your plate back?”  She holds it out toward her.  

Carmelina simply looks at it.  

Quickly, Beca adds, “And also, to say thank you.  For the food.  I don’t even know exactly what it was, but it was really good.  So…” she raises the plate a little more toward her, forcing a polite smile.  “Thank you.”

Still, Carmelina doesn’t take the plate.  The moment stretches out, and Beca’s not sure what to do.

Finally, Carmelina heaves a great, weary sigh.  Rolling her eyes, she turns and disappears through her front door.

Beca remains where she is for a second, bewildered.  Then she takes a few hesitant steps toward the door, not sure whether she’s meant to follow or not.  She peeks in through the screen, but before she can decide whether to open it, Carmelina has returned, looking annoyed that someone is blocking her way forward.

“Sorry,” Beca whispers, stepping back.

Emerging from the house again, the old woman carries in her arms a large cooking pot.  From it she lifts a serving spoon heaped with some kind of pasta, and before Beca even realizes that she’s still holding the plate out, the food has been deposited onto it with a grimace of reluctant goodwill.

Alarmed, Beca tries to explain.  “Oh, no, that’s not-  You misunderstood, that’s not actually what I-”  As Carmelina ignores her and adds another heaping spoonful, she mutters, “I wasn’t… begging.”  Her words trail off in embarrassment and she gives up on explaining.

Once the plate is heaped with pasta, Carmelina gives it a firm push back toward her, as if to say,  _ That’s all you’re getting. _

Beca stares down at the food, wondering how these things happen to her.  “ _ O _ -kay,” she smiles tightly.  “I guess, I’ll just… go, and eat this, then.  Not really sure what else to do right now.  So, thank you.  Again.”

Awkwardly, she carries the plate toward her door, glancing back once to see Carmelina waiting and watching her, cradling the cooking pot protectively against her body as if to guard the remaining contents.  Beca again considers trying to explain, but decides against it.  Giving the old woman another stiff smile and a little wave, she lets herself inside.  

Back in her own living room, she drops the smile and leans wearily against the door as she shuts it behind her.  Mr. Cheeto watches her from a pile of boxes.  Pondering on exactly how such a simple gesture led to such an absurd misunderstanding, Beca tells him, “I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a slutty orphan.”

His only response is to move from the top of the box to the inside of the the box, where she can no longer see him.

Offended, Beca warns, “You know, you’re not gonna have so many hidey holes when I get this place in order.  Then what are you gonna do?  You’ll  _ have  _ to hang out with me.”

But this threat proves to be an empty one, because even as the days turn into weeks, not much progress is made on the inside of the duplex.  She begins to wonder why she brought so much stuff with her.  It hardly seems worth it to unpack things that she doesn’t even need yet.  And there’s so much stuff already here that the previous tenants left behind.  She’s not sure what to do with it.  What if she gets rid of everything and then they come back looking for it?  But it also feels weird to use it for herself.  Even digging through their boxes feels like snooping.

Then, there’s the matter of the decor.  Her experience with decorating is mostly limited to indie band posters and throw pillows, and this job is much bigger than that.  It's so big that she doesn't even know where to start.  So, for the most part, she doesn't.  She makes a halfhearted effort here and there, but these little touches only seem to highlight the overall bleakness.  After a while, she just stops seeing it.

When she’s home, she mostly tends to stick to the bedroom.  It feels more familiar in size and layout, like a dorm room, like her room in the Bella house.  She turns it into a comfortable nest where she spends the majority of her time.  It’s where the only TV is anyway; for some reason, the flatscreen the previous tenants left behind is bolted to the wall, and she can’t think of a good enough reason to bother moving it.  More and more as the weeks go by, she even brings her food up to eat there, because it feels weird sitting at an empty table in a silent kitchen.  It’s definitely not how she pictured herself living in her first solo apartment as an upwardly mobile college grad with a cool job in L.A., but not much about her new life is turning out to fit those earlier fantasies.

Not even the cool job part, as it turns out.  She’d assumed that when that first crazy week was over, she’d be given more responsibility and more opportunities for real collaboration on the music being produced.  Instead, the work on the Jelly Shoes album turns out in retrospect to have been something of a high point.  Once it’s finished, Beca finds that much of her time at Hang Ten is spent doing the errands of a glorified intern.   Some of it is boring and predictable, like being asked to make coffee or run out for toilet paper - tasks she agrees to with relatively good grace, hoping it’ll win her points with Felicia if she takes some of the load off her shoulders.  Some of the stuff is interesting in its own way, if not quite what she signed up for, like helping with the graphic design for album covers, something she turns out to be surprisingly good at.

But some of the stuff she’s asked to do is just plain annoying.  Sven has her spend one entire afternoon scrubbing what she can only assume is a decade’s worth of ear sweat from every pair of headphones and earbuds in the building.  She also gets the unenvious job of wiping down and disinfecting the studio microphones after recording sessions for artists who care more about the acoustics of enunciation than about keeping their own saliva in their mouths.  And if an artist requests something bizarre while they’re in the studio, she’s usually the one who gets roped into that, too.  One moody Irish singer-songwriter claims that he can’t perform his songs with the proper emotion unless he’s making eye contact with a woman.  Beca spends an awkward and miserable four hours in the booth with him, being that woman.  By the end of the day she feels like she needs a shower, and possibly a pair of dark sunglasses that she can wear for the rest of her life.

Often, instead of working with the artists who are actually repped by the label, she’s assigned to run the studio during rental sessions.  Which means working with a lot of very, very un-talented people who have the money to blow on vanity projects like recording their own albums.  It’s usually spoiled teenage girls, bankrolled by wealthy families.  Although Beca learns early on not to make this assumption, at least not out loud.  When a girl arrives too early for her session during Beca’s second week, she tells her it’ll be at least another half hour before they can get started and asks whether she’d rather leave and come back later, or just wait.  The girl seems stumped by this question, and glancing out at the street where the old man who’d dropped her off hasn’t yet made it to his car, Beca asks, “Do you want to check with your grandpa?”

She seems incredibly offended by this, so Beca quickly amends it.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  Is he your dad?”

“He’s my  _ husband _ .”

After the girl flounces out, Felicia, who has overheard this exchange with understated amusement, gives Beca a tip.  “Word of advice?  Always just assume it’s the husband.  Even if it  _ is  _ the dad, he’ll still be flattered.”

Beca makes a face.  “Ew.”

“Welcome to L.A.,” Felicia smiles.

And that’s another thing.   _ Los Angeles. _  The mythical land of her dreams.  

Within a few days of arriving, it’s a troubling suspicion.  After a few weeks it’s a gathering realization.  By the two month mark, it’s become an undeniable certainty.  

_ She fucking hates this place. _

She hates the boring, undeviatingly pleasant weather, the lack of thunderstorms, the constant clear skies and bright sunshine that make her want to hide away in her darkened house like a vampire.  She hates the shallowness, the obsession with youth and physical perfection, with money and fame, that seems to pervade the very air of downtown.  She hates the weird and borderline-unhinged manner of strangers who sometimes start talking to her, with no encouragement, about yoga or juice cleanses or plastic surgeons who specialize in hairline issues (the last of which leads her to spend a perplexed evening examining herself from different angles in the mirror and wondering why this advice was offered to  _ her _ , in particular.)  She’s irritated by the sheer sprawling size of the place, by how far away everything feels from everything else.  She’s even creeped out by just how overwhelmingly white the city is, or at least the parts where she lives and works - after growing up in New Orleans and spending her college years in Atlanta, it’s noticeable and just a little jarring.  

In fact, if she was pressed to name something, there’s only one thing she could unequivocally claim to like about Los Angeles, and that’s the effect it has on her hair.  Since childhood she’s had to spend more time than she’d ever admit trying to force her naturally wavy, unruly hair to look as if it’s actually straight and silky.  Out here, in the dry air, it finally lays lank and flat with little effort on her part.  It’s a small consolation for how much everything else about the city sucks, but she’ll take it.  When her dad visits for the day one weekend in early October, she tries to explain to him how important this factor is, but he doesn’t seem convinced that it’s a good enough reason to live thousands of miles away from everyone she knows.

It’s not that she doesn’t try to love the place.  She keeps waiting and waiting for that moment when everything will click, and it’ll feel like home.   Over the past few years she’d become so used to thinking of college as the thing she had to get through so that she could get  _ here _ .  So why, now that she’s here, does she find herself constantly thinking about college?  Why does she still feel more like a Bella than like a producer?

Although even clinging to that identity turns out to be more of an effort than she would have predicted.  She'd expected to keep in close contact with everyone.  Living together, they’d been so enmeshed in each other’s daily routines and dramas that it was impossible to believe they could ever truly get untangled, let alone drift out of each other’s lives.  But she hadn't anticipated how hard it would be to have short, casual conversations with people she no longer sees on a regular basis.  They've lost what they had in common, and other than reminiscing, it's hard to know what else to talk about.  Chloe is the only one she talks to at least once a week, and texts nearly every day.  She'd thought she'd hear from Amy more often, but Amy tends to move around a lot and go off the radar for long stretches of time, and she's constantly changing phones and numbers.  If she didn't know any better, Beca would suspect that she’s a spy.  

On the few occasions when she does manage to get in contact with her, Beca senses that Amy’s fishing around for an invitation to visit.  In her current isolated state, she’s tempted to just give in and ask her.  It’s not that she doesn’t want the company.  But she knows it would mean hosting Bumper as well, and that once they’re installed it might be hard to get rid of them, and she can’t quite bring herself to do it.  Besides, the only bed she can offer a guest is the downstairs couch, and the thought of discovering them going at each other on her furniture is a fear she just can’t conquer.  She misses Amy, but she doesn’t miss her  _ that  _ much.

Her contact with the others isn’t nearly as consistent, and grows even more spotty as the months go by, but she still hears from them occasionally.  Stacie has a tendency to text her pictures of guys she’s bedded, which she expects Beca to rate on a scale of one to ten.  For some reason that Beca has never been able to figure out, Stacie really values her opinion.  But this skill set in particular is one where she doesn’t have a lot of confidence.  In high school, when other girls would ask her if she thought a guy was hot or not, she could usually tell by their faces that her answer was wrong.  So she scrutinizes these pictures from Stacie like it’s some kind of test, then hazards a number.  

_ I don’t know?  6. _

Her number is usually not accepted.

_ 6!?!?  Are you freaking kidding me?  Hang on, I’ll send one where he’s naked. _

Beca texts back in a hurry.   _ No!  8, ok?  I’ll bump him up to 8.  I don’t need to see anything else! _

Texting with Lilly is about as enlightening as talking to her face to face - which is to say, not at all.  She tends to send random, inscrutable messages, a picture of a moose, for instance, with no accompanying words for context.

_ I don’t get it _ , Beca might text back.   _ Can you explain? _

Hours later, a response will arrive.

_ No _ .

Cynthia-Rose is nearly as non-verbal as Lilly via text, but it works just fine, because she mostly sends music.  And Beca sends her music back, which for her is an even easier and more natural communication system than words, anyway.   Over the years, she’s grown accustomed to running every new song she hears through a filtering system in her mind, trying to hear whether it would work as an acapella arrangement, and in the process asking herself two questions -  _ Can Chloe choreograph it? _  And  _ Will Cynthia-Rose hate it? _  Technically, only the two captains could make the final call on set lists, but every Bella knew there was an unofficial third captain, and one who wielded enormous veto power.  Now, even with acapella behind her, Beca finds it’s hard to break the habit of wanting her opinion.

Jessica and Ashley sometimes text too, but it usually takes her a few days to remember to text back.

Sometimes when she’s chatting with the other Bellas, she gets the sense that they’re not buying it, that they see through her insistence that everything is great, that her life is going exactly according to plan.  It’s probably just her imagination, because it’s not like any of them have ever been great at figuring her out.  Except for Chloe.  And with Chloe, she’s careful to not drop any hints that could be used to build a case for her disillusionment.

But there is one person who’s definitely not falling for it, and that’s her mom.  She seems to sense Beca’s mood from a distance, and finds excuses to call her nearly every day.  Instead of letting her leave a message, Beca often finds herself actually answering the phone, just like in those first few lonely weeks at Barden before her life became consumed with acapella.  And just like at Barden, she’s usually only a few minutes into the conversation before she begins questioning her choice and sometimes regretting it.

Roberta Silverman Mitchell, known to most people as Bobbie, has always been an outsized force in her daughter’s life.  It’s true that except for their love for music and a penchant for blurting out inappropriate things in social settings, the two have almost nothing in common personality-wise.  Where Beca is private, cynical, and solitude-loving like her dad, Bobbie is a carefree extrovert who insists (believably) that she’s still seventeen on the inside.  But despite their differences Beca has been close to her mother since her earliest childhood; possibly too close, at times.  In fact, she was the kid who had the meltdown on the first day of kindergarten when her parents attempted to drop her off, leaving her mom no choice but to stay with her all day.  It’s a story Bobbie adores telling over and over again, to Beca’s lifelong mortification.  

Not content with just embarrassments from the past, her mom, in Beca’s opinion, seems to be constantly on the lookout for new and fresh ways to make her uncomfortable.  One night she’s chopping lettuce for Mr. Cheeto while she chats with her mom about nothing much in particular, when Bobbie suddenly asks in a sly voice, “So, have you gone out with anyone?”

Pausing in her chopping, Beca looks confused.  “What do you mean?”

“You know, on a date.”  Her tone is very nudge-nudge-wink-wink, as if they’re girlfriends gossiping at the office watercooler.

“Mom?” Beca says slowly, like she’s talking to someone a bit challenged.  “I have a boyfriend.  You remember Jesse, right?  You’ve met him.  More than once.”

“Of course I remember him,” Bobbie says dismissively.  “Although honestly, I wouldn’t say he’s particularly memorable, would you?”

“ _ Really _ ?”

“Oh come on, it’s not an insult, Beca.  I’m sure he’s a very nice boy.  Man.  Boy-man.  Whatever.”

Beca sounds hurt.  “I thought you liked him.”

“I do like him!” Bobbie protests.  “He’s been willing to put up with you for years, so how could I not?  But New York is a long way away, sweetie.  It doesn’t hurt to keep your eyes open.  You’re not married.”

Beca starts to reply, but then presses her lips together, irritated, deciding it’s best not to go any further down this road.  “Can we talk about something else?  How about  _ your  _ dating life?” she goads her.

“My dating life?”  Bobbie doesn’t sound annoyed.  “Hmm, well, let’s see.  Oh, I bought a new vibrator last week.  It’s really cool, it’s got all these gizmos and gadgets that came with it, I’m not even sure what some of them are supposed to-”

“Oh my God!” Beca cuts her off, horrified.  “Never mind, that is not what I meant!”

“You know, you should get one, I’ll email you the link to the product page if I can find it on here.”

“Please don’t,” Beca begs.  “I will  _ not  _ open that email.”

Ignoring her, Bobbie says, “Hang on, I had it right here.  Where did you go, you little bastard?”

“Mom?  Mom.   _ Mother _ .”

“Why is my goddamn computer so slow?” she mutters.  “Next time you’re here I want you to take a look at this piece of crap.  Oh, found it!”

“You’re not actually sending that email are you?   _ Don’t send it _ .”

“Too late, it sent!” Bobbie announces.

Beca closes her eyes and shakes her head in weary defeat.  As always, she silently vows to let the next call go to voicemail.

The following day at the studio, she’s waiting for the long afternoon hours to pass while working on some tedious layering that Sven has assigned her, and which in her opinion makes the track in question sound muddy and amateurish.  But she’s doing it anyway, trying her best to contain the damage.

Her mind keeps wandering, though.  She finds herself still mulling over her mom’s question, trying to figure out exactly what she’d meant by it.  Somehow, she feels guilty, as if her own neglect of Jesse is causing other people to forget about him too.  But it’s not like it’s just on her end, he barely has time to talk to her, either.  Currently their relationship is being maintained almost exclusively through texts, and not even in real time, because their schedules don’t mesh well.  If all goes according to plan, though, he’s going to be visiting for the first time next week, for Thanksgiving.  She decides she’ll take a ton of selfies of the two of them to send to her mom, to prove just how committed she is.

She’s progressed as far as posing them in her head, imagining the two of them taking pics in all kinds of cute coupley situations that they would almost never naturally find themselves in.  Situations that would make them look like they’re in a real relationship.  (Except they  _ are  _ in a real relationship, she reminds herself.)  A picnic, maybe?  Running through the surf?  She hasn’t even been to the beach yet, it could be a good excuse.  A tandem bicycle, would that be too over the top?  Probably.  Even her mom would see through that one.

“Beca.”

Pulled out of her absurd fantasies, she realizes Miggy has been trying to get her attention from across the room.

“Hey,” she says.  “What’s up?”

He looks around the studio, empty except for the two of them, as if waiting for her to catch on.  When she doesn’t, he helps her out.  “Sven’s gone.”

She glances around, then recalls, “Oh, yeah, I think he said he had some kind of meeting.”

Miggy nods.  “And George is gone too.  For the rest of the day.”

Beca still looks blank.  “Okay?”

Suddenly he springs up from his spot at the mixing board.  There’s a gleam of anticipation in his eyes.  “So, both the big bosses are gone.  At the same time.  You know what that means around here?”

“Um…” she hedges.  “I guess not?”

“It means….”  He points at her with both fingers, raising his eyebrows.  “Studio dance party,” he practically whispers in excitement.

“Oh.”  Beca’s forehead wrinkles as she tries and fails to make sense of this.  “What?”

Instead of answering, he hurries over to the main sound board and hooks his phone into a laptop.  While fiddling with it, he calls back to her, “You came out of Atlanta, right?”

“Yeah, sort of,” she confirms, peering over to try to see what he’s doing.  “It’s where I went to college.”  

He turns his head to give her a mischievous look.  “Then this one’s for you.”

Before she can reply, a heavy bass line drops, recognizable after only a few seconds.  She laughs, then almost immediately groans, briefly covering her eyes.  “Oh, God.  Oh, no.”  The song is Get Low, by the Ying Yang Twins.  “Really?” she protests, still laughing.

“Really!” he insists, turning the volume up even higher, the room nearly vibrating now.

“You know,” she raises her voice over the music, “There  _ are  _ better songs that have come out of Atlanta.”

Now Miggy’s starting to dance, all by himself in the middle of the studio.  “Better than  _ this _ ?  Nah.  Not possible,” he teases.

“Dude, what are you doing?” she can’t help asking.  “What is this?”

Before he can reply, she hears someone else’s voice.  Suddenly Roger is in the doorway.  “Is that what I think it is, my man?  Is that I what I think it is?”

“Get in here!” Miggy tells him.

He’s already dancing as he bounces into the room - not particularly well, but enthusiastically.  “ _ Yes _ !  Oh, I needed this  _ so bad _ !”

Beca watches, still baffled.  

“Where’s Felicia?” Roger asks after a minute.

Both men call plaintively toward the open door.  “Feliciaaaaa!”

To Beca’s surprise, she appears a few seconds later, her arrival accompanied by the cheers of the guys.

Pausing in the doorway, she takes in the situation.  “And just what the hell is this?”  For a second Beca’s worried she’s going to tell them to get back to work.  But then she adds, “You boys think you gonna just start without me?”

She laughs as they pull her into the studio, and then all three of them are dancing.  Not just casually.  They’re really going for it, bringing out their best moves like they’re in a hip hop club.  Or at least a hip hop club circa 2002.  After a bit, Roger begins unbuttoning his shirt in a kind of dance floor strip tease.

“Take it off, take it off!” they encourage him.

Then he takes it off, revealing his flabby and extremely white torso, spotted with coarse black chest hair.

Felicia changes her mind.  “No. Mm-mm, put it back on.  Put that shit back on!”

He complies and puts it back on as Felicia shoves him out of the center of the makeshift dancefloor.  She takes her turn in the solo spotlight, showing off some impressive and undeniably sexy moves as the guys hang back around the edge and encourage her.  Beca’s surprised to see her so relaxed and having genuine fun - it’s a side of Felicia she definitely hasn’t witnessed yet.  

Then it’s Miggy’s turn to show off his own skills.  “Take it to the floor, baby!” Felicia urges him, which Miggy actually does, briefly.  But he’s everywhere else too, seemingly all at once.  Beca would never have guessed he was such a good dancer.  There’s also something about the way he moves, a certain attitude, that fuels her vague suspicion that he’s probably gay.  They haven’t really talked about personal stuff on that level, but it’s just a sense she has.  She  _ hopes  _ he is, since it would rule out the chance of him ever getting a crush on her.

“C’mere, Rog,” Felicia suddenly grabs Roger and pulls him to her, comically sultry.  “Let’s get our Save the Last Dance on.”

“ _ Yes _ !” Roger agrees.  “Wait, am I Julia Stiles?”

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t,” Felicia confirms.

Beca looks on in amused amazement as the two of them actually seem to recreate part of the main club dance scene from the movie, dropping down to the floor, bouncing back up, invading each other’s space with exaggerated attitude. 

Miggy suddenly remembers Beca.  He gestures for her to join them.  “Bec, c’mon, get in here!”

“No, no, this is your thing!” she argues, waving him away, not wanting to intrude on their space.

But he doesn’t accept this, coming toward her to grab her wrists.  “You’re part of the family now, girl!” he tells her.

With a sigh of fake protest, she allows herself to be pulled into their midst.  

“Come owwwn, Mitchell, let’s see what you got!” Roger encourages her in a ridiculous voice.

“You sure about that?”  She feels a bit awkward at first, but then she decides to just go for it.  She is a good dancer, after all.  She knows she can bring the sexy when she wants to.  After years of Bellas training, mostly in the form of unnecessary touching from Chloe, she’d learned to stop fighting the music and just surrender her body to it.  So she shows them what she’s got, holding nothing back.  They seem suitably shocked and impressed, which she can’t help enjoying.  It’s a specific kind of performance high that she hasn’t felt in a long time.

Felicia is watching her with a raised eyebrow and a kind of amused surprise.  “Okay, okay,” she nods.  “Where’d  _ this  _ come from?”

Beca considers mentioning the whole acapella thing, but decides against it.  It would only diminish her cool quotient, not increase it.  Better to leave it as a talent with mysterious origins.

“Damnnn.”  Miggy seems to feel his questionable song choice has been validated.  “See, I  _ knew  _ you had some crunk in you.  I could feel it!”

She laughs, feeling a strange uplift of exhilaration.  She realizes that right now, this very moment, is probably the first time she’s been truly happy since arriving in L.A. months ago.  For the first time she feels like she has friends here, instead of just co-workers.  Maybe she’s reading too much into it and it won’t last, but it’s nice while it does.

“Hey, Beca!” Miggy seems to have a sudden idea, as he strikes a salsa pose and pulls her toward him.  “Dirty Dancing, you and me!”

“Oh, okay.  Wait, am I Patrick Swayze?” 

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t,” he agrees.

She throws her head back and laughs.  

The four of them continue to dance as the music vibrates the walls of the room.  

**********************

One week later, with Sven back in the studio, that carefree dance party feels like something that must have happened in an alternate universe.  She can now understand why they take the opportunity every chance they can get.

Beca’s sitting across from him at one of the mixing boards, struggling to stay alert through her boredom, trying to read his mood via glances she keeps sneaking at him, resentful that she even has to care about his mood.  

For some reason, she’s always vaguely thought of Scandinavians as being happy people, but Sven is like a glowering cloud of aftershave-scented stress, constantly dampening the atmosphere inside the Hang Ten offices.  That first week, she’d thought it was because of the looming album deadline, but it turns out he’s always that way.  He works as if  _ every  _ day is the day before a crucial deadline.  

Beca can respect that, even if it doesn’t make him particularly pleasant to be around.  She gets it; she knows what it means to get sucked into a project, your attention narrowed to a laser focus.  But she would respect it more if he would let her into the process and allow her to share his obsession, rather than trying so hard to keep her on the outside of it.

The thing is, he’s not even that talented, in her opinion.  He’s good, but not as good as he thinks he is.  His signature sound, to her highly sensitive ears, is beginning to feel a little outdated.  Or maybe not so much outdated, as trying too hard to keep up with current fads, and in the process always falling behind.

Despite never receiving any encouragement, she never gives up trying to offer him advice.  Even when he clearly doesn’t want it at all.  She’s just too stubborn and determined, too sure of her own judgment, to let herself be daunted.  But it’s frustrating, never being taken seriously, never getting to show anyone what she can do.  She’s surrounded by expensive, state of the art equipment that she can’t even use to work on her own stuff, but only in the service of someone else’s vision.  And Sven is absurdly territorial about the equipment, as if he thinks no one but him knows how to use it properly.  Beca is convinced that she could actually show  _ him  _ how to better utilize some of the stuff they have here, but whenever she tries, he acts like she’s secretly aiming to sabotage the studio.

Today, they’re working on a song by a male-female duo.  The pair has a sound that started out purely in the pop genre, but they’re wanting to branch out on their next release.  Beca doesn’t think the songs Sven has chosen for the album do justice to their potential, but the recording is done, and so this is what they’ve got.  Beca knows in her gut that a more natural and stripped-down approach on the current song would better highlight the woman’s soulful voice, but Sven is trying to take it in a more processed direction.

“Let’s do some vocal distortion on those first few bars,” he says to her now.

“All right.”  Beca suppresses a sigh.  “You want to do that thing where everyone sounds like a screaming hawk?  I know you love that one.”

He doesn’t reply, probably not appreciating the dryly mocking tone.  She assumes this means yes, so she starts the process.  But a few minutes later, she can’t help trying again.

“Hey.”  She lowers the headphones to her shoulders.  “You know, I was just thinking.  That effect has been in, like, every song that’s come out the last few years.”  In what she hopes is a diplomatic way, she suggests, “Maybe it’s time to start looking for the next trend?”

He waits a long beat before looking up at her, as if gathering his patience.  “Beca.”  He seems to consider his words carefully.  “Can you do the distortion, or not?”

There’s a pause while she stares him down and considers how she might reply to this.  In the background, she can sense Miggy’s discomfort - he has almost no ego to speak of, so the now-constant ego showdowns between Sven and Beca tend to make him antsy.  

Sven wins the round, as always.  Beca knows there’s really only one answer possible for her.  “Yeah.”  She smiles tightly.  “I can do it.  It is definitely… well within my skill set.”

“Good.  Then do it.”

She returns to the task, biting the inside of her cheek in irritation.  When she’d first been hired, Chloe, knowing how important it was for Beca to keep this job and how slim her options would be if she lost it, had given her a short and helpful list of suggestions to keep in mind when she inevitably found herself getting pissed off by someone.

_ Try to remember that bad attitudes are only cool on teenagers. _

_ Before you say anything rude, wait ten seconds and then decide if it’s really worth it. _

_ There’s probably never any excuse for using the word ‘dick’ in a workplace setting. _

That last one has been particularly difficult to stick to.  She’s currently questioning the wisdom of it at this very moment, as she darts occasional dirty looks in Sven’s direction.  She senses that the day is coming when she won’t be able to hold it back anymore.  She can feel the pressure building in her like a levee about to break.

But not today.  Today, thank God, is almost over.  For her, anyway.  She’d asked George if she could take off a few hours early, because today is the day Jesse’s flying in to spend Thanksgiving with her at her dad’s.  

When Sven sees her preparing to leave, he looks puzzled.  She explains the situation to him, telling him she’s meeting her boyfriend in Oakland and she needs to catch a flight.

“ _ Boyfriend _ ,” he repeats, sounding surprised.  “Really?”  

“Yeah?”  Beca is more confused than offended.  “Why?”

“No, it’s nothing.  I guess I just had the wrong read on you, that’s all.”  It looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

She still doesn’t get it, but she doesn’t care enough about what he thinks to question it further.  “Um, okay?  So, anyway, have a nice holiday,” she manages to offer tepidly.  

His only response is a slight nod as he goes back to work.

On her way out of the studio, Miggy stops her.  “Hey Bec, wait!  I got you something, for Thanksgiving.  Since you’re my music soulmate and all.” 

“A Thanksgiving present?” she asks.  “Is that even a thing?”

“I don’t know, but it should be,” he tells her with conviction, reaching into the jacket that’s flung over a chair and pulling a small paper-wrapped object from the pocket.  He tosses it over to her and watches as she unwraps it.  Then he helpfully explains, “It’s a turkey.  Wearing headphones.”

“I see that,” she says, grinning down at the refrigerator magnet.  She looks back up at him, genuinely touched.  “This is amazing.  This is gonna live on my fridge, all year.”

“Awesome.”  He smiles back at her.  “Happy Thanksgiving.”

Even from the other side of the room, she can sense Sven’s eye roll.

She’s already got her overnight bag with her, so she heads straight to the airport - her dad is paying for her to take the short flight up to Oakland.  But predictably, with the holiday chaos, the flight is delayed.  She spends almost as much time at the airport waiting to get on the plane as she actually spends on the plane.  When she finally lands, she gets a text from Jesse letting her know that his flight got in early, so he’s already gone ahead to her dad’s apartment and will meet her there.  She tries not to be annoyed by this.  It wouldn’t make any sense for him to wait around a crowded airport for hours just so they can share a cab for forty minutes.

When the taxi drops her off near the Berkeley campus and she knocks on her dad’s apartment door, it’s Jesse who answers.  The weirdness of this is not lost on her.  She’s been wondering exactly how their reunion moment should go, since it’s been a little over three months since they’ve seen each other.  But they’re spared the need for any greeting more emotional than a hug, since Beca’s dad is loitering just behind them in the living room, and anything else would be awkward.

With what’s left of the afternoon, they’re treated to a short tour of Berkeley and the surrounding area, and then dinner at a restaurant that Beca suspects is much more expensive than her dad can truly afford on his visiting professor’s salary.  But he seems eager to justify their trip, and touchingly glad to have some company.  Beca feels bad that she came very close to turning down the invitation.

After an initial wariness when they’d first met, Dr. Mitchell and Jesse have mostly gotten along well during the past few years.  They’re both dorks, so that helps, Beca suspects.  They also both share a devoted love for obscure foreign cinema, a genre Beca can’t even make the effort to pretend to care about.  She’s usually content to let them try to out-nerd each other by sharing esoteric trivia about French directors or Japanese documentaries.  It allows her to hang back and ironically observe, without having to worry about keeping up a constant stream of conversation.  That option is especially appreciated tonight, because she finds herself feeling oddly detached from both of them.  It’s a feeling she’s used to when it comes to her dad, but with Jesse, it’s something she’d worked hard to overcome.

Unfortunately, it seems the months apart have almost totally erased the ease with physical contact she’d finally managed to develop with him after three years as a couple.  It doesn’t feel exactly like starting over from scratch, but it’s far from where they were when she’d left Atlanta in August.  Either he’s feeling the same way, or he senses her mood and is trying to give her space.  Because even after they return to her dad’s almost laughably tiny apartment, and he retires to bed early to give them some privacy, Jesse still keeps a small but noticeable distance between the two of them.  Alone with her in the living room, he takes her dad’s leather recliner, while she claims the corner of the couch, feet tucked up underneath her.

The weirdness abates somewhat when they start talking about music, because that’s one thing they’ve always been good at.  They catch up on everything school and internship and job-related.  Beca’s narrative turns into a series of complaints which then morphs into a bonafide rant.  Jesse tries to help her brainstorm ideas for how she might get her stuff out there, ways she could build up an audience, ways to get the attention of someone who might give her the opportunity to do the kinds of things she really wants to be doing.  He tells her that it’s only been a few months, and she shouldn’t be discouraged yet.  Which she  _ knows _ , in a theoretical sense, but it’s different when it’s her own everyday reality.

“It’s gonna happen,” he tries to persuade her, with touching earnestness.  “Talent always rises to the top.”

“Aw.”  She gives him a look that’s almost pitying.  “That’s kind of cute, actually.  That you still believe that.”

She appreciates his support, but now that she’s seen the industry up close and gotten a better feel for how things work, she’s realized how crucial the role of luck is when it comes to making it.  Sometimes all it comes down to is having the right connection, making the right first impression on the right person at the right time and place.  And she’s well aware that making a good first impression is not on her list of strengths.  There doesn’t seem to be any point in trying to explain all this to him, though.  It’s too depressing.

But then he says something that freaks her out more than it probably should.  “You know what, if it doesn’t work out here, maybe you should try New York.”  He quickly adds, “And I’m not just saying that because I want you to be there.   _ Obviously _ , I do.  But, you know, L.A. isn’t the entire industry.  Some of the best studios are on the East Coast.”

She doesn’t reply for a long time, pretending to give her attention to the vapid special that’s currently airing on TV about the balloons for tomorrow’s Macy’s parade. 

“Yeah,” she finally says, sounding guarded.  “I mean, maybe.  But I’d have to give it at least a few years before I’d give up completely.”

He nods slowly, managing to seem thoughtful and nonchalant, though Beca suspects he’s disappointed by this answer.

For a while they lapse into silence, watching TV and swigging from their respective bottles of beer.  Now that they’ve covered most of the past few months, they seem to have temporarily run out of topics.  The one Jesse eventually introduces is definitely not one she would have predicted.

“Hey,” he turns from the TV, as if the thought has suddenly popped into his mind.  “So, what’s the deal with Chloe?  Is she okay?”

Beca feels a split-second of alarm, as if there’s been some kind of accident she hasn’t heard about.  But of course it can’t be that, or he wouldn’t be asking so casually.  She tries but doesn’t quite succeed at matching his offhand tone.  “Yeah, as far as I know.  Why?”

“It’s just, the last few times I’ve talked to her, she doesn’t really sound like herself.  There’s something  _ off _ .”  He seems to be thinking of a more precise word, but doesn’t find it.  “I can’t put my finger on it.”  

“You guys talk?”  She’s more amused than surprised by this.

“Sometimes.  Mostly just about you.”  Off her awkward look, he raises his eyebrows and adds, “Oh you think I’m joking, but I’m not.”

Smiling, she says, “No, I believe you.  I’m just trying to pretend it’s not creepy.”

He doesn’t bother trying to convince her that it’s not.  Instead, he asks, “So, why’s she working for her dad, anyway?  Politics doesn’t seem like her kind of thing.”

“Yeah, I don’t really get it either,” Beca agrees with a shrug.  “She never talked about her parents much.  I get the feeling they weren’t close, I think she was pretty much raised by the help.  But they can’t be that bad if they gave her a job, right?  I’m sure it pays better than mine,” she adds cynically.

“So, you don’t think she sounds weird?” he presses.

“Yeah, of course she sounds weird.  It’s Chloe.  When has she ever sounded normal?”

“You know what I mean.”

She thinks about it, picking at the label on her beer bottle.  “I don’t know.  I guess I’m just not really good at noticing stuff like that.”  One possible reason for this is that during their conversations she’s usually focused on not giving away her own low mood.  But Jesse doesn’t need to know that.

“She  _ is  _ your best friend,” he reminds her.

“Jeez!”  Her indignation is only partially faked.  “Thanks for the guilt trip,  _ dad _ .”

He gives her a sheepish smirk.  “Sorry.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Beca insists.  “She’s probably just having a hard time moving on from the Bellas.  You know it always meant way too much to her.”  Saying these words, she feels a strange little stab of guilt, as if she’s betraying Chloe.  She also wonders if she’s being a hypocrite, because maybe it had meant too much to her, too.  Not that she’d realized it at the time.  It’s only now, after it’s gone, that she’s starting to understand.

“You’re probably right,” Jesse agrees, not really sounding convinced.  They’re both quiet for a few seconds.  He adds, “Hey, you know what I just realized?  When I talk to Chloe, we gossip about you.  And now, you and me are gossiping about her.  Wow.”  He considers this.  “I would have made a great woman.”

“I mean, I know  _ I’ve _ always thought so,” Beca jokes.  “It’s part of what attracted me to you, actually.”

“I know you didn’t mean it that way?”  He points a finger at her.  “But I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

She laughs and throws a sofa pillow at him.

That moment with the pillow turns out to be possibly the high point of the night when it comes to intimacy, because things only seem to go downhill from there.  Since Dr. Mitchell is teaching at Berkeley for such a short time, only one semester, he’d opted to rent the smallest apartment he could.  It’s a one-bedroom, which means Jesse and Beca have been given the pull-out sofa bed in the living room, because there’s literally nowhere else for them to sleep.

When making the arrangements for this holiday reunion, they’d considered getting a hotel room, but it turns out that both their finances are in such a precarious state that it’s not really a possibility.  If Beca’s dad hadn’t paid for her flight, she couldn’t even afford to be here.  She can’t ask him to pay for a hotel room on top of that, especially not when he’d seemed so thrilled about having overnight guests.

So when they finally realize how late it is and decide it’s time for bed, the fact that they’re sleeping in the middle of the living room is already awkward enough.  It can’t exactly be called private.  But it turns out privacy isn’t the main problem.  Once they’re both in bed, the TV switched off and the room darkened and quiet, the main problem soon reveals itself.

Her dad’s snore.

Beca can’t believe she’s forgotten about it.  How could she possibly have forgotten about it, even after years of not living with him?  It’s not something you forget.  It’s not a normal, human snore.  It’s a visceral, palpable, nearly corporeal thing, a snore that travels through rooms and lurks around corners and seems to have its own distinct personality.  In fact, when he’d left home, one of the first thoughts that had absurdly flitted through Beca’s confused fourteen-year-old mind was that maybe her mom had kicked him out because she’d finally had enough of that snore.

Now, despite the (apparently paper thin) walls separating the rooms of this apartment, it sounds as if he’s right there in the bed with them.  There’s no escape from it.  They both lie there next to each other, staring at the ceiling in the filtered streetlight from the parking lot, bodies taut as bowstrings, each apparently waiting for the other to make some kind of move.  The moment stretches out and becomes unbearable, the snore seeming to hover just above them like a malevolent, chastity-guarding spirit.

Finally, Beca grimaces, even though he probably can’t see her in the dark.  Awkwardly, she whispers, “So, I know this sucks, but I don’t think I can…  _ do  _ anything, with that sound in the background?”  She waits tensely for his reaction.

“Oh thank God,” he gasps out in a pent-up breath of relief.  “Me neither, I thought I was gonna have to let you down.  What is  _ wrong  _ with him?”

She laughs a little, reassured by his obvious sincerity.  “I don’t have an answer to that.”  She turns her head to face him.  “So we sleep?”

“Sounds good,” he whispers back.  

They exchange a chaste peck on the lips, and then turn in opposite directions like an old married couple.  Almost as if they’ve placated the demonic snore, the volume of it immediately drops a bit.  Or maybe it’s just Beca’s imagination.  

She tries to go straight to sleep and not dwell on what a lame and unsexy reunion this is.  Maybe tomorrow night, if they both pool every cent they have left, they could afford a cheap hotel.  A motel.  A youth hostel.   _ Something  _ other than this.

But that tentative plan is dashed the minute she wakes up.  Maybe before she wakes up, actually, because even before she’s fully conscious she’s aware of the sound of Jesse’s voice in the bathroom, muffled but still audible, having an angry one-sided argument with someone on the phone.

When she finally does summon the energy to emerge into full wakefulness, the first thing she sees upon opening her eyes is his luggage, sitting on the foot of the bed and apparently repacked with everything he’d just taken out of it last night.

She sits up, and, still groggy, looks around.  There’s no immediate sign of him, so she gets out of bed and finally locates him just coming out of the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed.

“Hey,” he greets her, looking guilty.  Before she even gets a chance to ask any questions, he sighs heavily.  “Bad news.”

She doesn’t waste time pretending that she doesn’t see where this is going.  “Let me guess.  You’re leaving.”

He doesn’t answer, which is all the answer she needs.

“It’s Thanksgiving!” she accuses him.

“Bec, I know that,” he says, looking miserable.  “But, look, apparently there’s some kind of an emergency at work.”

She stares at him for a minute.  “Seriously?  A  _ film scoring _ emergency?”

He lifts his hands and lets them fall in a hapless shrug.  “The movie’s producers hate what we did.  If we don’t start from scratch and give them something else by Monday, they’ll go to a different studio.”

Beca considers this for a few seconds.  “Oh.”  Sullenly, she’s forced to admit, “Yeah, I guess that kind of is an emergency.”

He comes toward her, but she keeps her arms crossed, not making any move to meet him.  “I am  _ really  _ sorry about this, Beca.  You know what, maybe…” he seems to be casting around for ideas.  “Maybe I can make it to New Orleans for Christmas.”

“That’s still a month away.  And don’t you have to go to your grandma’s?”

“I’ll try to get out of it.”  He gives her his patented half-smirk of charm.  “She’s got dementia, maybe she won’t notice.”

She refuses to smile at his joke attempt, aware that she’s being a brat.  But it wasn’t a very good joke anyway.  

He checks his watch.  “Do you want to come with me to the airport?” he offers.  “I can wait, while you pack.”

She hesitates, thinking it over.  But,“No,” she tells him with a sigh.  “I should stay here and eat with my dad.  He bought a turkey.”  She rolls her eyes, but truthfully, she doesn’t relish the thought of returning to her empty apartment just yet.

“Okay.  If you’re sure that’s what you want,” he nods, and there’s an awkward silence.  There doesn’t seem to be much left to say.

After that, it seems like only a few minutes pass before he’s got all his stuff together and there’s a cab waiting below.  It’s almost funny, how fast it’s happening.  Her dad isn’t even out of bed yet.  She tries to think how she’s going to explain this in a way that makes it sound like something that would happen to normal people.

Heading out the door, Jesse turns to her and tries to assuage his guilt with another joke.  “You’re not gonna get all weepy and emotional on me, are you?  Because you know I hate that.”

Beca only cocks an eyebrow at him, her expression taciturn.

“Right.”  He can’t resist adding, “You know, if this was a movie, this would be the part where you wait until I get in the cab, then you rush down and fling yourself against the door until I come out, and we have a passionate make-out session in the parking lot.”

“Hmm.”  Pretending to contemplate this, Beca says doubtfully, “I don’t think we would be in that movie.”

He gives her a wry smile.  “Yeah.  Probably not.”

When he kisses her goodbye, she’s still sulking and doesn’t really put much effort into kissing him back.  She knows she’ll regret it later, but knowing it isn’t enough to help her snap out of it.  She’s pissed, even if it’s not his fault.  He hasn’t even been here twenty-four hours.  She hasn’t even had a chance to take any coupley pictures to send to her mom, to make it look like he’s her boyfriend.  (He  _ is  _ her boyfriend, she reminds herself again.)

She watches from the window as he gets into the cab, planning to at least wave if he looks up.  But he doesn’t.

After her dad gets out of bed, he goes through the motions of being disappointed on her behalf, but she suspects he might be secretly glad to not have to share her with Jesse for the day, as most dads likely would be.  She knows she’s probably too old for this to please her, but deep down, it still does, maybe because she missed out on so much of it during her teen years.

Maybe a bit to her surprise, their day together turns out to be unexpectedly pleasant.  After breakfast, they make the short drive down to San Francisco, where, due to the holiday, they have some of the most popular sightseeing spots almost entirely to themselves.  Beca doesn’t typically have much interest in doing the tourist thing, but without the crowds, it’s not too bad.  She finds herself vastly preferring San Francisco to Los Angeles, wishing on some level that she could just stay here.  She especially appreciates the cold, gray, drizzly weather, which suits her personality much better than the incessant blue skies of L.A.  If only it had the music industry.

After seeing some of the city, they have a fast food lunch and then head back to the apartment to prepare the main evening meal.  It turns out that neither of them have actually cooked a turkey alone before, and so there’s some frantic Googling and eventually a secret phone call to her mom, which Beca makes from the bathroom in her quietest voice.  After Bobbie finally stops laughing at how completely ridiculous the entire situation is, she offers advice.  

The rest of the stuff, the side dishes, they manage to pull together on their own.  It’s not a huge meal, or anything especially impressive, but it’s got all the basics.  And maybe the most notable part, to Beca at least, is that they manage to cook the entire thing without any unpleasantness between them.  She tries to be on her best behavior, and she can tell her dad does as well.  There are a few dicey moments, when they stray too close to a veiled reference or an accusation, or when a nice memory threatens to trigger other, not-so-nice ones, but they manage to sidestep these and continue on around them with a rare poise.  She doesn’t know if she’d go so far as to call the whole thing  _ fun _ , but it’s without a doubt the most cordial day she’s had with her dad in a very long time.

When the food is finally ready and they sit down to eat, her mood is dampened just a bit by Jesse’s absence.  She doesn’t even miss him, exactly.  Other than when he’d texted to let her know his plane had landed, she’s barely thought about him all day.  But now, with time to reflect, she wonders if she should have tried harder to keep him from going.  Did he  _ want  _ her to try harder?  If she was a different kind of girlfriend, would he even have considered leaving at all?  

Because it occurs to her now, as she imagines the picture this meal would present to someone glancing in through the window, that two people is an almost pathetically small number for a major holiday.  What does it say about them, about her dad and herself, that they’re both alone?  That this is all they can manage?  Her mom never misses a chance to tell Beca that she’s just like her father.  Sometimes she says it in a mildly affectionate way, but usually it’s more like a worried foretelling of doom.  Is this what she means?  Beca makes an effort to not dwell on it during dinner.

She does find herself curious about what went wrong with his second marriage, though.  But they’re not close enough for her to feel comfortable asking about it unless he brings it up first, and he doesn’t.  Still, she gets the sense that he’s thinking about Sheila, on this first Thanksgiving without her after six years together, which is probably why he hits the wine so hard at dinner.  The inevitable result is that by the time they cut into the pumpkin pie, he’s reciting dirty Victorian limericks and telling her loopy and meandering stories about that time in grad school when he joined a rock band for three months.  By nine p.m., he’s passed out cold in bed.  

Like the mature, responsible adult she now is, Beca clears the table and does the dishes.  Well, she does the plates and the glasses and the silverware.  The hard stuff, the pots and pans, she leaves soaking in the sink for her dad to deal with tomorrow.  He is the host, after all.  If he complains, she can always bring up that whole ruined adolescence thing.  She’s flying back in the morning, so the need for politeness is nearly over.

Afterwards there’s nothing much for her to do but go to bed.  She changes into pajamas and yanks the pull-out metal frame from the couch, the mattress still made up with the sheets and blankets from last night.  But she’s not tired enough to sleep yet, so she opens her laptop on the bed and attempts to work on a new mix.  She’s been trying to incorporate more of her own original elements in this piece, but something still isn’t quite working with it.  The melodic base is solid, she knows that.  It’s better than solid, it’s really good.  It’s just that it doesn’t want to be electronic.  The song needs vocals.  But before vocals, it needs  _ lyrics _ .  And that’s one thing she knows she can’t do.

After a while she sighs, frustrated, and closes the lid.  The problem demands more concentration than she can summon right now.  Her mind keeps wandering, and there’s something nagging at the edges of her consciousness, a sense of unease, something she’s been avoiding thinking about all day.  What is it?  She glances around the quiet room, her gaze falling on the chair Jesse had been sitting in while they talked last night, and then she remembers.  It’s what he said about Chloe.

What were his exact words?  That something was  _ off  _ with her.  What does that even mean?  It could mean anything.  It probably means nothing.  And Jesse probably doesn’t even know her well enough to be able to figure something like that out, anyway.

But still, she finds herself wanting to know if he’s right.  To do that, she knows, she’d have to actually call Chloe, to hear her voice.  Texting would be no good.  It’s too easy to fake it in a text.  Beca should know, she’s becoming something of an expert at it.

Impulsively, she grabs her phone, but then hesitates, remembering the time difference.  It’s 10:30 here, which means 1:30 am in Atlanta.  Chloe is a night owl (but also a morning person, which Beca has never been able to figure out), so there’s a chance she’ll still be awake.  But, then again, it’s a holiday, so maybe not.

If she doesn’t answer, Beca decides, she’ll just text.  She should have already texted to say happy Thanksgiving anyway, it now occurs to her.  It’s the kind of thing a decent friend would remember to do.  (It’s the kind of thing she never remembers to do.)

She’s tense as she waits for the call to go through.  Part of her hopes Chloe  _ is  _ asleep, so she can at least satisfy her conscience that she tried.  

But nope.  The phone barely even rings before it’s picked up.

“Beca!” Chloe answers, in a trill of joy so loud that Beca has to hold the phone out from her ear.  “Hiiii!  I’m so glad you called!”

“Hey!  I didn’t know if you’d still be awake.”  

“I’m still awake!” she assures her, as if this isn’t obvious.  

“Noted.”  Beca can hear the distorted sound of thumping bass in the background, which seems odd, given the late hour and the fact that it’s a holiday.  “Where  _ are  _ you?”

“I’m at a club!” Chloe yells over the music.

“You’re at a club?  On  _ Thanksgiving _ ?”

“Yeah!  Don’t worry though, I’ve been drinking crantinis for hours, they’re totes seasonal!”

“Wow.”  Beca doesn’t know what to say to this.  Trying to mask her concern, she says, “Um, you’re not alone, are you?”

“No, of course not!”

But this answer doesn’t quite give her the comfort that it probably should.  Now she says, a little awkwardly, “Oh.  Okay, well, if you’re on a date or something, I don’t want to- .”

Chloe interrupts.  “No, no, I’m not on a date!  I’m with Stacie, and Jessica and Ashley.  We’re the only ones left in Atlanta!”

Beca feels a bizarre sense of relief, followed almost immediately by a twinge of… not envy, exactly, but a kind of longing, a sense of being left out.  

“Guys,” she hears Chloe instruct the others, “say hi to Beca!”

From a slight distance come three unsynced voices caroling in varying levels of enthusiasm, “ _ Hi Becaaaaaa! _ ”

“Did you hear that?” Chloe asks, still shouting.  “Do you want me to make them sing something?”

“No,” Beca smiles.  “That’s okay.”  Pretty confident she already knows the answer, she nevertheless asks, “Chlo, are you drunk?”

“Am I drunk?  Um, I don’t know!  Hold on, let me get a second opinion.  Jess, am I drunk?”

“Definitely,” Beca hears Jessica say in the background.  “No question about it.”  She sounds weary, like she’s been babysitting for hours.  Since Jessica is Mormon and doesn’t drink at all, she’s always the designated sober sister, whether she wants to be or not.  

“You are plastered, my dear,” cackles Ashley, who sounds pretty plastered herself.

“Survey says,  _ yes _ !” Chloe happily informs Beca.  “Hang on a sec, I’m gonna duck into the bathroom so I can hear you better!”  A few seconds later, the heavy thumping of the music fades to a barely noticeable hum in the background.  Chloe continues, her voice now at a more normal speaking level.  “There, that’s better.  You still there?”

“Still here,” Beca verifies.  “I can’t believe you guys found a club open on Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, apparently it’s super exclusive, but we had an inside hookup.  Stacie knows a guy.”

“Of course she does.”  Feeling more relaxed now, Beca leans back into the pillows and slides her laptop aside.  “Did you at least have dinner with your family?”

“Nope, not this year, none of us did.  We had a  _ Friendsgiving _ .  That’s when you have Thanksgiving, with your friends,” she explains.

“Clever,” Beca remarks, as if she’s never heard this term before.

“Oh, I didn’t come up with it.  At least…” Chloe sounds uncertain, “I don’t think I did.  See, the plan was, we were all supposed to bring food, but everyone thought everyone else would bring enough, and so… nobody brought food.  It turns out, we really suck at Friendsgiving.  So we decided to just go out for drinks.”

“So, you haven’t eaten anything?”

“Well, we sort of had dessert.  There was a lady who came to our table earlier and gave us pie out of a Ziploc baggie.  She seemed pretty crazy, but the pie was good,” Chloe offers breezily.

“Huh.”  Beca wrinkles her brow.  But since she herself is no stranger to accepting food handouts from crazy ladies, she can’t exactly pass judgment on this.  Instead, she changes the subject.  With her earlier conversation with Jesse in mind, remembering how he’d zeroed in on Chloe’s job, she asks in what she hopes is a natural way, “So, how’s work going?”

Apparently not natural enough, because Chloe sounds surprised.  “Work?” 

“Yeah, you know, the whole… political thing.”  She can’t be more specific than this, because she literally doesn’t remember any other details.

“Right, my dad’s Congressional staff.  It’s… I don’t know, fine, I guess?  Pretty boring.  Right now we’re doing some legal stuff to try to steal part of Tennessee.”

Beca thinks she’s heard her wrong.  “Like, the state?”

“Mm-hm, yeah.  There’s this whole thing where Atlanta’s running out of water, but if we can grab a slice of Tennessee near the border, we can siphon off their river.  So, yep.”  Chloe sounds resigned.  “That’s what I’m doing.”

“And Tennessee is okay with that?”

“No, not at all, they told us to burn in hell.  But see, technically, they stole that land from us, like two hundred years ago?  So we’re just stealing it back, through the courts.  Or trying to.  You know what, ask me again when the room isn’t spinning, maybe I can explain it better.”

“Will do,” Beca says.  Although she knows she probably won’t.  She’s already satisfied herself that if something is  _ off  _ with Chloe, as Jesse claims, it’s probably just the fact that her days sound as tedious as Beca’s are mostly proving to be.  That has to be it.

“So, what about you?” Chloe asks.  “How was Thanksgiving with your dad?  Jesse flew in, right?”

“Yeah.  Well, I mean, that was the plan.  He couldn’t stay long, though.  He had to fly back this morning.”

“He left before the turkey?”

“ _ Way _ before the turkey,” Beca confirms.  “We didn’t even have time for sex.”  Immediately she winces at herself, wondering why she’d felt the need to make Chloe aware of this fact.  

“Oh no.  That’s terrible.”  These words are followed by a muffled snort, as if she’s trying to cover her mouth.

“Dude, are you laughing?”

“ _ No _ !”  There’s a pause.  “Yes.  Maybe?  I’m sorry, Beca.”  Confidingly, she slurs, “It’s possible that I  _ might  _ maybe be drunk.”

Now Beca laughs, too.  “Yeah, pretty sure we established that.”

“Hi!” Chloe suddenly says brightly, to someone other than her, Beca assumes.  Then, “ _ Shit _ ,” she mutters into the phone.  Even more quietly, she whispers, “I think this is the men’s room.”

Beca shakes her head, glancing toward the heavens as if for a divine commiseration.  “Chloe?”

“Hm?”

“Please get out of there.  And go home.”

“No, you’re right,” she agrees.  “It’s probably time to call it a night.”

The sound of the music in the background now becomes slightly louder again, which Beca assumes means she’s at least exited the bathroom and is no longer alone with a strange man.  That’s progress.

“Jessica’s driving?” Beca asks.

“Of course.”

“Just making sure.  So, anyway… I just wanted to say happy Thanksgiving,” she says, by way of wrapping up the call.

“Yeah, you too!   I’m so glad you called,” Chloe repeats for the second time.  “Oh, and tell your dad I said hi!  And that I miss his classes.  And that I still think Natasha Rostova’s children deserve to hear her sing.”

“Okay.”  Beca looks confused.  “I don’t know what that means.  But, sure.”

There’s a pause, and Beca wonders if she should hang up.  Sometimes, with Chloe, it’s hard to tell.  She’s just on the verge of doing this when Chloe speaks up again, her voice hesitant and hardly audible above the club noise, but unmistakably different now, as if a veil is slipping.

“Beca?”

She presses the phone hard against her ear.  “Yeah?”

Chloe’s silent for so long that if it wasn’t for the continuous pulsing of music, Beca would assume she’d inadvertently disconnected the call.  Finally, in an oddly strained and emotional voice, like she’s fighting back tears, she says, “I really wish you were here.”

Beca’s first instinct is to make some kind of smartass reply, something about how if she was there, she would have made sure they found turkey  _ somewhere  _ before they started drinking, but the sarcasm sticks in her throat.  The silence on her end grows even longer than Chloe’s had been, and she feels like an idiot.  She swallows hard.  “Me too,” she eventually manages.  These words sound so nakedly sincere to her own ears that she can’t just leave them hanging there, so she adds, “Text me later, okay?  To let me know you got home safe.”

“I will.”  Chloe draws in a sharp, shaky breath and lets it out, like she’s collecting herself.  “Bye.”

“Bye.”

Still, though, Beca doesn’t hang up, waiting for her to do it first.  But Chloe must be too drunk to end the call properly, because there’s a scratchy fuzziness of the phone rubbing against skin or fabric, as if she’s trying to get it into her pocket.  To her relief, Beca now hears her say to someone, “Let’s get out of here.”

Then a voice that’s obviously Stacie’s.  “Yeah, I’m ready, I just need to do one thing before we leave.”

Chloe’s voice.  “No, Stacie, wait, that’s the men’s room.”

Then Stacie again.  “I know that!”

Finally, whether by intention or accident, the call is ended.  

Beca’s not sorry to have missed the conclusion of this exchange, but she still feels strangely bereft when the connection is cut off.  She turns her phone off, but continues to hold it in her lap for a few minutes, staring down at it without really seeing it.  There’s a painful pressure in her chest, and a tightness in her throat.  She stays completely still, barely breathing, waiting until it passes.

Eventually the combination of patience and willpower wins out, and the feeling fades.  She slides the phone under her pillow, flips off the bedside lamp and turns onto her side, closing her eyes.

On the other side of the wall, her dad also must have shifted position, because the noise level of his snoring suddenly kicks up a notch.  He’s practically rattling the walls.

Beca sighs and pulls the blanket over her head.

  
  
*****************  
  
  


1\. " _Proprio non mi volete crescere, bimbe mie. Cosa c'è, è colpa di questo mascalzone qui? Vi sta dando noia_?" = "You really don't want to grow, my baby girls. What is it, is it this naughty boy's fault? Is he bothering you?"

2\. " _Eppure l'avevo avvisato, vero_ _?_ " = "I warned him, didn't I?"

3\. " _Ecco qua! Guardiamo se vi da ancora noia, adesso._ " = "There! Let's see if he still bothers you now."


End file.
